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With gentle hands they bore him,That bright and shining train,From Nebo's lonely mountainTo sleep in Moab's vale.But they sung no mornful dirges,No solemn requiems said,And the soft wave of their pinionsMade music as they trod.But no one heard them passing,None saw their chosen grave;It was the angels secretWhere Moses should be laid.And when the grave was finished,They trod with golden sandalsAbove the sacred spot,And the brightest, fairest flowersSprang up beneath their tread.Nor broken turf, nor hillockDid e'er reveal that grave,And truthful lips have never saidWe know where he is laid.
