The bosom where I oft have lain,
And slept my infant hours away,
Will never beat for me again,
For it lies dead, and wrapped in clay.
How many were the silent prayers
My mother offered up for me;
How many were the bitter cares
She felt when none but God could see.
Well, she is gone, and now in Heav’n
She sings His praise, who died for her:
And to her hand a harp is given,
And she’s a heavenly worshipper.
O, let me think of all she said,
And all the kind advice she gave;
And let me do it now she’s dead,
And sleeping in her lowly grave.
And let me choose the path she chose,
And her I soon again may see,
Beyond this world of sin and woes,
With Jesus, in eternity.