Death of a child.

YE mourning saints, whose streaming tears Flow o'er your children dead, Say not in transports of despair, That all your hopes are fled.

While cleaving to that darling dust, In fond distress ye lie; Rise and with joy and rev'rence view A heav'nly parent nigh.

Tho' your young branches torn away, Like wither'd trunks ye stand; With fairer verdure shall ye bloom, Touch'd by th' 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 ev'ry 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.