'Tis gone, with its joys and sorrows;
Its sunshine and storms of rain:
Look not away in the distance,
On relics of grief and pain;
Look up, dear friends, instead:
Let the dead year bury its dead!
What if our pride have suffered?
What if the hour of need
Have shown that the friend we trusted
Was worse than a broken reed?
Look up, though our hearts have bled:
Let the dead year bury its dead.
Let us count the abundant mercies
Our one great Friend has sent;
The days of our light and darkness —
All gifts of one sweet intent.
No matter the tears we shed:
Let the dead year bury its dead.
Ah, youth has been taught stern lessons,
And we of maturer years
Have learned a yet keener knowledge
Of life's vain hopes and fears.
How surely God's hand hath led!
Let the dead year bury its dead.
And the new-born year shall find us
Courageous, alert and strong;
Girt up for the strife before us,
Though sharp the trial and long.
On, on, with a firmer tread,
While the dead year buries its dead.
