Ye mourning saints whose streaming tears,
Flow o'er your children dead,
Say not in transport of despair
That all your hopes are fled.
While cleaving to that darling dust
In fond distress you 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 th' Almighty hand.
Herald of Truth
Vol XV, No 7
July 1878
Ye mourning saints whose streaming tears,
Flow o'er your children dead,
Say not in transport of despair
That all your hopes are fled.
While cleaving to that darling dust
In fond distress you 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 th' Almighty hand.
Herald of Truth
Vol XV, No 7
July 1878
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