1 Who shall forbid our grateful wo,
Our tears of love to start;
There's balm in their assuaging flow,
To heal the wounded heart.
2 This lovely babe, thus early torn
From our fond breasts away,
With silent grief is gently borne
To its lone bed of clay.
3 Here rest thee, till our longer race,
And heavier toils shall close;
Then shall we seek thy resting-place,
And share thy long repose.
4 We plant thee here, with tears bedew'd,
Bright flower of heavenly dye;
And often shall our griefs renew'd
These flowing founts supply.
5 But thou shalt yet in beauty bloom,
A plant of paradise;
And gladden with thy sweet perfume
Our mansion in the skies.
Source: The Minstrel of Zion: a book of religious songs, accompanied with appropriate music, chiefly original #134