I cannot see the flow’rets blow, All sparkling from the summer showers, But I can breathe their sweet perfume, And bless the God who made the flowers. O Lord, each murmuring thought control, Let no repining tear-drop fall, Pour holy light upon my soul, That I may own Thy love in all! I cannot see the pages where Thy holy will is written, Lord; But I can seek Thy house of prayer, And humbly listen to Thy word, Which bears my thoughts to that bright place Where I at Thy dear feet may fall, Behold my Saviour face to face, And see and own His love in all! VIII. THE HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS. The stately mansion riseth beneath the builder’s hand, When our children sleep in dust that mansion still may stand; But a nobler and more lasting dwelling to the saints is given, In a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven. The poor in spirit and the meek, the merciful and pure, On them the Saviour blessings breathed, for ever to endure; Those persecuted for His sake, from friends or kindred driven, Share a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven. And those who deeply mourn their sins shall find there yet is room, For such the Lord endured the cross, descended to the tomb; He ready stands to welcome those whose contrite hearts are riven, To a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven. What matter, then, how lowly be the roof above our head, What matter then how soon the stranger o’er our graves may tread, If we are pressing on with hearts renewed and sins forgiven, To a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven! IX. SEXTON’S HYMN. I’ve laid the earth above the child Whose life was but a summer’s day; I knew that God, in mercy mild, Had called his happy soul away. Then therefore weep O’er those who sleep? Their precious dust the Lord will keep, Till He appear In glory here, The harvest of the earth to reap. I’ve laid the earth above the youth Whose early days to God were given, Whose end bore witness to this truth, None die too soon who live for Heaven! Then wherefore weep O’er those who sleep? Their precious dust the Lord will keep, Till He appear In glory here, The harvest of the earth to reap. I’ve laid the earth o’er reverend age, Whose hoary hairs were glory’s crown, The saint had closed his pilgrimage, And gently laid life’s burden down. Then wherefore weep O’er those who sleep? Their precious dust the Lord will keep, Till He appear In glory here, The harvest of the earth to reap.