1 Thus one by one our loved ones go,
From year to year, from snow to snow;
The buds of springtime hardly bloom
Ere winter plucks them for the tomb.
2 The sweetest songsters soonest fly,
The fondest hopes the soonest die,
And harps but once to gladness strung
Are on the weeping-willows hung.
3 How much of grief, how little joy,
How little gold, how much alloy,
How many doubts, how many fears
Ye bring us, O ye passing years.
4 Though sorrow dims our vision here,
Faith points beyond this mortal sphere,
Where tears of anguish never flow,
Where pain and death none ever know.
Source: The Seventh-Day Adventist Hymn and Tune Book: for use in divine worship #921