  Mother, what ails our Lizzie dear, So cold and still she lies? She does not speak a word to-day, And closed her soft blue eyes. Why won't she look at me again, And laugh and play once more? I cannot make her look at me As she used to look before. Her face and neck as marble white, And, O, so very cold! Why don't you warm her, mother dear, Your cloak around her fold? Her little hand is cold as ice, So pure, I thought I could see through, The little hand I pressed. Your darling sister's dead, my child; She cannot see you now: The damps of death are gath'ring there Upon her marble brow. She cannot speak to you again, Her lips are sealed in death; That little hand will never move, Nor come that fleeting breath. All robed in white, and decked with flowers, We'll lay her in the tomb; The flower that bloomed so sweetly here, No more on earth will bloom; But in our hearts we'll lay her up, Because she died in life's spring time, Ere earth had won her o'er. Nay, nay, my child, she is not dead, Although she slumbers there, And cold and still her marble brow, And free from pain and care. She slept, and passed from earth to heaven, And won her early crown: An angel now she dwells above, And looks in triumph down. She is not dead, for Jesus died That she might live again. "Forbid them not," the Saviour said, And blessed dear sister then. Her little lamp this morn went out But angels bright in heaven this morn Relighted it once more. Some time we, too, shall fall asleep, To wake in heaven above, And meet our angel Lizzie there In realms of endless love. We'll bear sweet sister in our hearts, And then there'll ever be An angel there to keep our souls From sin and sorrow free. |
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