Through sorrow’s night and danger’s path,
Amid the deepening gloom,
We soldiers of an injured king
Are marching to the tomb.

There, when the turmoil is no more,
And all our powers decay,
Our cold remains in solitude
Shall sleep the years away.

Our labors done, securely laid
In this our last retreat,
Unheeded o’er our silent dust
The storms of life shall beat.

Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane,
The vital spark shall lie,
For o’er life’s wreck that spark shall rise
To seek its kindred sky.

These ashes too, this little dust,
Our Fa­ther’s care shall keep,
Till the last angel rise, and break
The long and dreary sleep.

Then love’s soft dew o’er every eye
Shall shed its mildest rays,
And dust, long silent, loud will burst
With shouts of endless praise.