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weepeth, when the weary go to rest? When the sick ceaseth from his bitter sighing? Who mourneth at the burial of the just With hopeless woe, the Comforter denying? Not the disciple whom his Lord made free, For whom he dar'd the grave, and won the victory.

Who count it evil, when affliction's dart Hath had its perfect work?—when sorrow's rod Leaves its sore smiting?—when the pure in heart Go in their saintly righteousness to God? Not they who walk with Wisdom's heavenly train, And from the Book of Truth, believe that "Death is gain."

Yet there is weeping when a good man falls, When a lov'd sire the cup of parting drinks, When a true watchman faints on Zion's walls, And 'mid his flock, a faithful shepherd sinks,— When by the living waters, where he fed The tender, trusting lambs, he slumbers with the dead.

For tears are pearls, by griev'd affection shed, Drawn from her deep, deep sea, with shuddering pain,— Yet Faith may string them on a silver thread, And wear them, till an angel's wreath she gain, And Piety hath in her bosom kept, And on her forehead grav'd, their sanction "Jesus wept."