Ye mourning saints, whose streaming tears
Flow o’er your children dead,
Say not in transports ofdDespair,
That all your hopes are fled.

While cleaving to that darling dust,
In fond distress ye lie;
Rise, and with joy and reverence view
A heavenly parent nigh.

Though your young branches torn away,
Like withered trunks ye stand,
With fairer verdure shall ye bloom
Touched by the Almighty’s hand.

“I’ll give the mourner,” saith the Lord,
“In my own house a place,
No names of daughters and of sons
Could yield so high a grace.

“Transient and vain is every hope
A rising race can give;
In endless honor and delight
My children all shall live.”

We welcome, Lord, those rising tears,
Through which thy face we see,
And bless those wounds, which through our hearts
Prepare a way for thee.

The Christian’s duty, exhibited in a series of hymns,