98
The Funeral.
Weep, mourners, weep,—aye, let your tears Drench, and drown the lonely bier,Let surge of sorrow's wildest grief Bury this sad eventful year.
O God, my nation calls too late, But deign, O deign to hear that call;Thou, who dost hear the ravens cry, Dost count each sparrow in its fall—
Look down in pity on Thy dust, Through Christ alone we call it Thine;'Tis frail and sinful, but O God, Christ made this human dust Divine.
And while we mourn this vanish'd year, May sins of nations be forgiven,Pity Thy dust Humanity, And draw us nearer to Thy Heaven.
