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But now, pale, drooping on my heart, Like flowers bathed in snow, he lay,His little ashen lips apart, His sweet breath passing fast away.Though life at best is but a book Where griefs and sorrows thickly lie,How could I meet his mother's look, And tell her that her child must die?
But when his voice no more could speak, When spent the last faint quivering breath,When cold and colorless his cheek,— Oh! he was beautiful in death.As we gazed upon his baby brow, All cold and white as drifting snow,We thought, though bright in heaven now, He's left an angel's form below.
We feel that he is now in heaven With God, who first our treasure gave;But once that treasure to us given, 'T was hard to lay him in the grave.'T was hard to see him pass away From earth to his eternal home;O God! then give us strength to say: "Father, Thy will, not mine, be done."
