Sadly We Sing, And With Tremulous Breath,
As We Stand By The Mystical Stream,
In The Valley And By The Dark River Of Death,
And Yet ’Tis No More Than A Dream.
Only A Dream, Only A Dream,
And Glory Beyond The Dark Stream;
How Peaceful The Slumber,
How Happy The Waking;
For Death Is Only A Dream.
Why Should We Weep When The Weary Ones Rest
In The Bosom Of Jesus Supreme,
In The Mansions Of Glory Prepared For The Blest?
For Death Is No More Than A Dream.
Naught In The River The Saints Should Appall,
Though It Frightfully Dismal May Seem;
In The Arms Of Their Saviour No Ill Can Befall,
They Find It No More Than A Dream.
Over The Turbid And Onrushing Tide
Doth The Light Of Eternity Gleam;
And The Ransomed The Darkness And Storm Shall Outride,
To Wake With Glad Smiles From Their Dream.
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