My Savior! is my place prepared,
And for my welcome hast thou cared,
When death shall call for me?
When I shall rest beneath the sod,
Shall angels bear my soul to God?
O, Savior! can it be?
Exceeding grace! I raise my eyes,
All wet with tear-drops, to the skies,
And bless thee for thy love;
I would not always dwell below,
Where death has torn my heartstrings so;
’Twill ne’er be thus above.
And yet, ’tis well—’tis well for me,
And well for those who’ve gone to thee,
That thou didst call them home;
I love those dear ones far too well,
To wish that they again should dwell
Where I in sadness roam.
I would not ask them now to change
Their peaceful home; they’d think it strange,
And ’twould be strange indeed
If I, who am a pris’ner here,
And daily shed the silent tear,
Should mourn when they are freed.
I feel not as an exile feels,
When lonely sadness o’er him steals,
And hope forsakes his breast;
I am not banish’d from my home;
I have not many days to roam
Ere I shall be—at rest.
O, blessed Savior! now I see
Great preparations made for me,
In mansions bright and fair;
For thou, with sweet attractive art,
To make Heaven dearer to my heart,
Hast placed my jewels there!
BOSTON, October 11, 1840.