In Vain My Fancy Strives to Paint

In vain my fan­cy strives to paint

The mo­ment after death;

The glor­ies that sur­round the saints

When yield­ing up their breath.

One gen­tle sigh their fet­ters breaks

We scarce can say

They’re gone!

Before the will­ing spir­it takes

Her man­sion near the throne.

Faith strives

but all its ef­forts fail

To trace her in her flight;

No eye can pierce with­in the veil

Which hides that world of light.

Thus much (and this is all) we know

They are com­plete­ly blest;

Have done with sin

and care

and woe

And with their Sav­ior rest.

On harps of gold they praise His name

His face they al­ways view;

Then let us fol­low­ers be of them

That we may praise Him too.

Their faith and pa­tience

love and zeal

Should make their me­mo­ry dear;

And

Lord

do Thou the pray­ers ful­fill

They of­fered for us here.

While they have gained

we los­ers are

We miss them day by day;

But Thou canst ev­ery breach re­pair

And wipe our tears away.

We pray

as in Eli­sha’s case

When great Eli­jah went

May double por­tions of Thy grace

To us who stay

be sent.