1 Ye mourning saints, whose streaming tears
Flow o'er your children dead,
Say not in transports ofdDespair,
That all your hopes are fled.
2 While cleaving to that darling dust,
In fond distress ye lie;
Rise, and with joy and reverence view
A heavenly parent nigh.
3 Though your young branches torn away,
Like withered trunks ye stand,
With fairer verdure shall ye bloom
Touched by the Almighty's hand.
4 "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.
5 "Transient and vain is every hope
A rising race can give;
In endless honor and delight
My children all shall live."
6 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.
The Christian's duty, exhibited in a series of hymns, 1791