1 There’s a harp that is silent whose strings were of gold,
And whose song, as the jasper, was clear,
Oh, its cadence so rare, was of beauty untold,
As it fell like a charm on the ear;
But it wakes in a land where no sorrow can reach,
Where no shadow of evil can come,
Where the lips are unclosed in the angelic speech,
While our own trembling ones must be dumb.

2 There’s a lute that is ‘reft of its beautiful strings—
It is shattered, and silent, and still,
And the song that once rose as on glorified wings,
Now no longer our senses can thrill,
For a spirit has passed o’er the shadowy stream,
To the lands ever vernal and fair,
And the rift in the midst sends a beautiful gleam
Of the fullness of joy that is there.