Within the church­yard, side by side,
Are ma­ny long low graves;
And some have stones set ov­er them,
On some the green grass waves.

Full ma­ny a lit­tle Christ­ian child,
Woman, and man, lies there;
And we pass near them ev­ery time
When we go in to pray­er.

They can­not hear our foot­steps come,
They do not see us pass;
They can­not feel the warm bright sun
That shines up­on the grass.

They do not hear when the great bell
Is ring­ing ov­er­head;
They can­not rise and come to church
With us, for they are dead.

But we be­lieve a day shall come
When all the dead will rise,
When they who sleep down in the grass,
Will ope again their eyes.

For Christ our Lord was bur­ied once,
He died and rose again,
He con­quered death, He left the grave;
And so will Christ­ian men.

So when the friends we love the best
Lie in their church­yard bed,
We must not cry too bit­ter­ly
Over the hap­py dead;

Because, for our dear Sav­ior’s sake,
Our sins are all for­giv’n;
And Christ­ians on­ly fall asleep
To wake again in Heav’n.