Mute Are the Pleading Lips of Him

Mute are the plead­ing lips of Him

Who hath our cause de­fend­ed;

Love drained the cup filled to the brim

As ho­li­ness de­mand­ed.

The gen­tle Shep­herd here be­hold

Slain for the sheep lost to His fold:

From la­bor

pain

and weep­ing

Now rests He with the sleep­ing.

But not for aye

O Friend of men

Thou in the grave des­cend­est;

A lit­tle while

and then again

Thy griev­ing flock Thou tend­est.

The corn that falls in­to the earth

From dark­ness springs in full­ness forth

In sea­son amp­ly giv­ing

The life-bread to the liv­ing.

O Prince of Life

now to the gloom

Of earth con­signed in sor­row

My life so guide

that in my tomb

I wait the bless­èd mor­row.

When

freed from world­ly strife and care

This mor­tal frame re­pos­es there

Grant that my death­less spir­it

The bliss of Heav’n in­her­it.