On Canaan's border land,
By Jordan's watery gates, The host of Israel waits;— They mourn the Guiding-Hand.

With firm, free step he trod
On Pisgah's mountain crest; He laid him down to rest; Alone! save with his God.

He sighed no faint farewell;
No murmuring refrains Out-echoed angel strains; Nor tolled dull funeral knell.

Thus, as in days gone by
Great leader! careful guide! God called thee hence, aside; We might not see thee die.

Rest well! Oh silvered head!
Voice ever prone to bless, To soothe the soul's distress, Peace to thy lowly bed!

Though next thy heart, thine own;
Thy sympathies, world wide Flowed, with unstinted tide; Bedewed each mortal zone.

Rest well! ye feet which trod
That straight and narrow way Illumed of purer ray; Quintessence of our God.

Soul! which hath soared afar,
Beyond the flight of time; In calm, congenial clime, No ills thy joys may mar.

Fair spirit! just and wise;
Kind heart of largess love! Christ-life, all creeds above; Rest thou in kindred skies.

More glorious eve's bright sun,
More dull seems dolesome night; So, lost thy glorious light; And yet—Heaven's will be done.