by John White Chadwick
It singeth low in every heart,
We hear it each and all--
A song of those who answer not,
However we may call;
They throng the silence of the breast,
We see them as of yore--
The kind, the brave, the sweet,
Who walk with us no more.
'Tis hard to take the burden up
When these have laid it down;
They brightened all the joy of life,
They softened every frown;
But, Oh, 'tis good to think of them
When we are troubled sore!
Thanks be to God that such have been,
Although they are no more.
More homelike seems the vast unknown
Since they have entered there;
To follow them were not so hard,
Wherever they may fare;
They cannot be where God is not,
On any sea or shore;
Whate'er betides, thy love abides
Our God, forever more.