The precious seed of weeping

Today we sow once more,

The form of one now sleeping,

Whose pilgrimage is o'er.

Ah! death but safely lands him

Where we too would attain;

Our Father's voice demands him,

And death to him is gain.

He has what we are wanting,

He sees what we believes,

The sins on earth so haunting

Have there no power to grieve;

Safe in His Saviour's keepings

Who sent him calm release,--

'Tis only we are weeping,

He dwells in perfect peace.

The crown of life he weareth.

He bears the shining palm,

The "Holy, holy," heareth,

And joins the angels' psalm;

But we poor pilgrims wander

Still through this land of woe,

Till we shall meet him yonder,

And all his joy shall know.