Thou who didst stop below,
To drain the cup of woe,
And wear the form of frail mortality,
Thy blessed labors done,
Thy crown of vict’ry won,
Hast passed from earth, passed to Thy home on high.
It was no path of flow’rs,
Thru this dark world of ours
Beloved of the Father, Thou didst tread;
And shall we, in dismay,
Shrink from the narrow way,
When clouds and darkness all around it spread.
O Thou who art our life,
Be with us thru the strife;
Thy own meek head by rudest storms was bowed;
Raise Thou our eyes above,
To see a Father’s love
Beam like a bow of promise, thru the cloud.
E’en thru the awful gloom
Which hovers o’er the tomb,
That light of love our guiding star shall be;
Our spirits shall not dread
The shad’wy way to tread,
Friend, Guardian, Savior, which doth lead to Thee.