4 To thee, our Father, would we look, Our Rock, our Portion, and our Friend, And on thy gracious love and truth With humble, steadfast hope depend. 596. 7s. M. H. S. Washburn. The Pastor's Funeral. 1 Father, gathered round the bier, Aid thy weeping children here; All our stricken hearts deplore Loss of him we meet no more. 2 Tender are the rites we pay, Pastor, o'er thy sleeping clay; We, who late the welcome gave, Must we bear thee to thy grave? 3 Earth, unto thy faithful trust, We commit this precious dust, There, by pain no more oppressed, Brother, thou wilt sweetly rest. 4 Glorious will that morning break, When the dead in Christ shall wake; Joy and grief our bosoms swell, Brother, pastor, guide, farewell. 597. P. M. Anonymous. Death of a Minister. 1 On Zion's holy walls Is quenched a beacon-light, In vain the watchman calls-- "Sentry! what of the night?" No answering voice is here, Say--does the soldier sleep? O yes--upon the bier, His watch no more to keep. 2 Still is that heaven-touched tongue, Pulseless the throbbing breast; That voice with music strung, Forever put to rest. To rest? A living thought, Undimmed, unquenched, he soars An essence, spirit-wrought, Of yon immortal shores. 3 Peace to thee, man of God! Thine earthly toils are o'er, The thorny path is trod, The Shepherd trod before,-- Full well he kept his word-- "I'm with thee to the end; Fear not! I am the Lord, Thy never-failing friend!" 4 We weave no dirge for thee, It should not call a tear To know that thou art free; Thy home--it was not here! Joy to thee, man of God! Thy heaven-course is begun, Unshrinking, thou has trod Death's vale,--thy race is run. 598. 8s. & 7s. M. L. H. Sigourney. The Same. 1 Pastor, thou art from us taken In the glory of thy years, As the oak, by tempests shaken, Falls ere time its verdure sears. 2 Pale and cold we see thee lying In God's temple, once so dear, And the mourner's bitter sighing Falls unheeded on thine ear. 3 All thy love and zeal, to lead us Where immortal fountains flow, And on living bread to feed us, In our fond remembrance glow. 4 May the conquering faith, that cheered thee When thy foot on Jordan pressed, Guide our spirits while we leave thee In the tomb that Jesus blessed. 599. C. M. Doddridge. The Same. 1 What though the arm of conquering death Does God's own house invade; What though our teacher and our friend Is numbered with the dead;--