"Beneath a sleeping infant lies,
To earth whose body lent
More glorious shall hereafter rise,
But not more innocent.
When the archangel's trump shall blow,
And souls to bodies join,
Millions will wish their lives below
Had been as short as thine."
S. Wesley.
"How often does the heav'nly Shepherd
His peculiar love display;
When He comes His flock to visit,
And a lamb He bears away;—
Away to those sweet fields above,
Where the lov'd ones hear His voice,
See His face, and weep no more,—
For in heav'n they all rejoice."
