Brother, thou art gone be­fore us;
Where thy saint­ly soul is flown,
Tears are wiped away for ev­er,
And all sor­row is un­known;
From the bur­den of the bo­dy,
From all care and fear re­leased,
Where the wick­ed cease from troub­ling,
And the wea­ry are at rest.

O’er the toil­some way thou’st tra­veled
And en­dured the hea­vy load;
Christ hath brought thy foot­steps lan­guid
Safely to His blest abode.
Thou art rest­ing now, like La­za­rus,
On thy heav’n­ly Fa­ther’s breast,
Where the wick­ed cease from troub­ling,
And the wea­ry are at rest.

Sin no more can taint thy spi­rit,
Nor can doubt thy faith as­sail;
Thou thy wel­come has re­ceivèd,
Now thy strength shall ne­ver fail;
And thou’rt sure to meet the ho­ly,
Whom on earth thou loved’st best,
Where the wick­ed cease from troub­ling,
And the wea­ry are at rest.

To thy grave we sad­ly bear thee,
There in dust we place thy head;
O’er thee now the turf is press­ing,
And grows green thy nar­row bed.
But thy spi­rit soars to glo­ry,
Free, among the faith­ful blest,
Where the wick­ed cease from troub­ling,
And the wea­ry are at rest.

When the Lord shall send His sum­mons
Unto us who’re left be­hind,
May we, by the world un­taint­ed,
Gracious wel­come with thee find;
Each like thee, in peace de­part­ing,
To the king­dom of the blest,
Where the wick­ed cease from troub­ling,
And the wea­ry are at rest.