The stars are shining over head,
In the clear frosty night,
So will they shine when we are dead,
As countless and as bright.
For brief the time, and small the space,
That e'en the proudest have,
Ere they conclude their various race,
In silence and the grave.
But the pure soul, from dust shall rise,
By our great Saviour's aid,
When the last trump shall rend the skies,
And all the stars shall fade!