2 Our fathers, where are they, With all they called their own? Their joys, and griefs, and hopes and cares, And wealth and honor gone.
3 God of our fathers, hear, Thou everlasting Friend! While we, as on life's utmost verge, Our souls to thee commend.
4 Of all the pious dead May we the footsteps trace, Till with them, in the land of light, We dwell before thy face.
1 My Father! when around me spread I see the shadows of the tomb, And life's bright visions droop and fade, And darkness veils my future doom;
2 O, in that anguished hour I turn With a still trusting heart to thee, And holy thoughts still shine and burn Amid that cold, sad destiny.
3 The stars of heaven are shining on, Though these frail eyes are dim with tears; The hopes of earth indeed are gone; But are not ours the immortal years?
4 Father! forgive the heart that clings Thus trembling to the joys of time; And bid my soul on angel wings Ascend into a purer clime.
To God pertain the issues of Life and Death.
1 Sovereign of life! before thine eye, Lo! mortal men by thousands die: One glance from thee at once brings down The proudest brow that wears a crown.
2 Banished at once from human sight To the dark grave's mysterious night, Imprisoned in that dusty bed, We hide our solitary head.
3 Yet if my Father's faithful hand Conduct me through this gloomy land, My soul with pleasure shall obey, And follow where he leads the way.
4 The friendly band again shall meet, Again exchange the welcome sweet; The dear familiar features trace, And still renew the fond embrace.
1 Beneath our feet and o'er our head Is equal warning given: Beneath us lie the countless dead, Above us is the heaven!
2 Their names are graven on the stone, Their bones are in the clay; And ere another day is done, Ourselves may be as they.
3 Our eyes have seen the rosy light Of youth's soft cheek decay, And fate descend in sudden night On manhood's middle day.
4 Our eyes have seen the steps of age Halt feebly towards the tomb; And yet shall earth our hearts engage, And dreams of days to come?
5 Death rides on every passing breeze, He lurks in every flower; Each season has its own disease, Its peril every hour.
1 Like shadows gliding o'er the plain, Or clouds that roll successive on, Man's busy generations pass, And while we gaze their forms are gone.