I thank thee, God, for weal and woe, Eliza Cook, .

The Night is closing round, Mother, Barry Cornwall,

Tears for earth's brightest hopes when fled;
Tears for the cherished, early dead.

Yes, tears may dim the eye,
When sorrow sways control,
Nor yet one murmuring sigh
Escape the stricken soul;
For ah! when he of Bethany slept
In death's embrace, then Jesus wept.

And ye may weep,-'tis well,-
Since thus bereft ye are,
For grief's own shadowy spell
Is on your spirits there;

Ye mourn a spirit from you flown,—

A sweet voice from your household gone.