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

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

3 "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.

4 "Transient and vain is ev'ry hope
A rising race can give;
In endless honour and delight
My children all shall live."

5 We welcome, Lord! those rising tears,
Through which thy face we see,
And bless those wounds, which thro' our hearts
Prepare a way for thee.