And one, "There's no suffering nor sorrow here,"
One, "I have seen the city of countless charms,"
One, "'Neath me are the Everlasting Arms,"
So we know it is best,
They should be at rest,
In God's paradise.

Mary's Blessed Son,
Thou wilt not chide if thou see'st that low
Our harps are hanging on willow bough;
We would not murmur, we know it is well,
They are gone from the battle, the shot and shell,
And in our anguish we're not alone;
The Father knows all the grief we have known;
Oh God, who once heard the Christ's bitter cry,
Thou knowest what we feel when we see them die.
Our light, has been hid
By the coffin lid,
And dark our noon.

God hears our moan,
He knows how a stricken heart had said,
"Oh, number her not with the silent dead,
For if she stays watching the golden sea,
God help, for what will become of me?
The last rose out of my childhood's bower,
From my English garden, the last sweet flower;
Take me instead, for none call me mother."
The messenger said, "I take no other."
So she went the road