Mute are the plead­ing lips of Him
Who hath our cause de­fend­ed;
Love drained the cup filled to the brim,
As ho­li­ness de­mand­ed.
The gen­tle Shep­herd here be­hold,
Slain for the sheep lost to His fold:
From la­bor, pain, and weep­ing
Now rests He with the sleep­ing.

But not for aye, O Friend of men,
Thou in the grave des­cend­est;
A lit­tle while, and then again
Thy griev­ing flock Thou tend­est.
The corn that falls in­to the earth
From dark­ness springs in full­ness forth,
In sea­son amp­ly giv­ing
The life-bread to the liv­ing.

O Prince of Life, now to the gloom
Of earth con­signed in sor­row,
My life so guide, that in my tomb
I wait the bless­èd mor­row.
When, freed from world­ly strife and care,
This mor­tal frame re­pos­es there,
Grant that my death­less spi­rit
The bliss of Heav’n in­her­it.