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.