Let Annie sleep; her rest is with the dead;

All sorrow past, her last sad tear is shed;

Why call to mind the sufferings here she bore,

When now with her they are forever o’er?

Why ope the wound—that wound so deeply given,

When from the parent tree this branch was riven?

Oh! spare thy tears, wake not the fount of grief;

No human power can aid or give relief.

She died in hope of living evermore

With those she loved, when Time’s last scene is o’er.

When Jesus comes, we trust there’ll be a place

Prepared for her with all the ransomed race.

Shall we then see her in immortal bloom,

Risen triumphant from the silent tomb?

Shall we there meet her all in bright array,

And spend in Heaven with her an endless day?

Shall we behold the glorious city fair,

And by the King of kings be welcomed there?

To eat with her the fruit of earth made new,

And give to Jesus praise and glory due?

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