When Musing Sorrow Weeps the Past

When mus­ing sor­row weeps the past

And mourns the pre­sent pain

’Tis sweet to think of peace at last

And feel that death is gain.

’Tis not that mur­mur­ing thoughts arise

And dread a Fa­ther’s will

’Tis not that meek sub­miss­ion flies

And would not suf­fer still:

It is that Heav’n-born faith sur­veys

The path that leads to light

And longs her ea­gle plumes to raise

And lose her­self in sight:

It is that hope with ar­dor glows

To see Him face to face

Whose dy­ing love no lang­uage knows

Sufficient art to trace.

O let me wing my hal­lowed flight

From earth­born woe and care

And soar above these clouds of night

My Sav­ior’s bliss to share!