The Bosom Where I Oft Have Lain

The bo­som where I oft have lain

And slept my in­fant hours away

Will nev­er beat for me again

For it lies dead

and wrapped in clay.

How ma­ny were the si­lent pray­ers

My mo­ther of­fered up for me;

How ma­ny were the bit­ter cares

She felt when none but God could see.

Well

she is gone

and now in Heav’n

She sings His praise

who died for her:

And to her hand a harp is giv’n

And she’s a heav­en­ly wor­ship­er.

O

let me think of all she said

And all the kind ad­vice she gave;

And let me do it now she’s dead

And sleep­ing in her low­ly grave.

And let me choose the path she chose

And her I soon again may see

Beyond this world of sin and woes

With Je­sus

in eter­ni­ty.