1 Go to the grave in all thy glorious prime, In full activity of zeal and power; A Christian cannot die before his time, The Lord's appointment is the servant's hour. 2 Go to the grave; at noon from labor cease; Rest on thy sheaves, thy harvest task is done; Come from the heat of battle and in peace, Soldier, go home; with thee the fight is won. 3 Go to the grave, for there thy Saviour lay In death's embraces, ere he rose on high; And all the ransomed, by that narrow way, Pass to eternal life beyond the sky. 4 Go to the grave:--no, take thy seat above; Be thy pure spirit present with the Lord, Where thou for faith and hope hast perfect love, And open vision for the written word. 593. S. M. Montgomery. On the Death of an aged Christian. "I have fought a good fight; I have finished my course." 1 Servant of God, well done! Rest from thy loved employ: The battle fought, the victory won, Enter thy Master's joy. The voice at midnight came, He started up to hear; A mortal arrow pierced his frame-- He fell, but felt no fear. 2 Tranquil amidst alarms, It found him on the field, A veteran slumbering on his arms, Beneath his red-cross shield His spirit, with a bound, Burst its encumbering clay; His tent, at sunrise, on the ground, A darkened ruin lay. 3 The pains of death are past, Labor and sorrow cease, And, life's long warfare closed at last, His soul is found in peace. Soldier of Christ! well done! Praise be thy new employ; And while eternal ages run, Rest in thy Saviour's joy. 594. C. M. Dale. Death of a Christian. 1 Dear as thou wert, and justly dear, We will not weep for thee: One thought shall check the starting tear It is, that thou art free. 2 And thus shall faith's consoling power The tears of love restrain: O, who that saw thy parting hour Could wish thee here again! 3 Triumphant in thy closing eye The hope of glory shone; Joy breathed in thy expiring sigh, To think the race was run. 4 The passing spirit gently fled, Sustained by grace divine; O, may such grace on us be shed, And make our end like thine. 595. L. M. Fawcett. Death of Parents. 1 The God of mercy will indulge The flowing tear, the heaving sigh, When honored parents fall around, When friends beloved and kindred die. 2 Yet not one anxious, murmuring thought Should with our mourning passions blend; Nor should our bleeding hearts forget Their mighty, ever-living Friend. 3 Parent, Protector, Guardian, Guide, Thou art each tender name in one; On thee we cast our every care, And comfort seek from thee alone.