Classic Poem

Mourn not, friends, mourn not, bereaved,
That his earthly race is run;
He hath reached the gates celestial,
Over death the victory won.

Moulded in his Father's image,
He the Saviour's footsteps trod;
And God claimed his sainted spirit,
Ere the body reached the sod.

Ah! ye would not then recall him,
But a tenement of clay;
Bless, oh! bless God, that his mercy,
Called his loved one away.

Meek and lowly, pure in spirit—
Humble as a little child—
Mighty in his love of Jesus—
He is with the undefiled.

Ever ready with his counsel,
And his prayers to guide the young;
Choirs of redeemed sinners,
When he died, the requiem sung.

Mourn not, friends, mourn not, bereaved,
That his earthly race is run;
He hath reached the goal eternal,
Over death the victory won.