When musing sorrow weeps the past

When musing sorrow weeps the past,

And mourns the present pain,

'Tis sweet to think of peace at last,

And feel that death is gain.

'Tis not that murm'ring tho'ts arise,

And dreads a Father's will;

'Tis not that meek submission flies,

And would not suffer still;

It is that heav'n born faith surveys,

The path that leads to light,

And longs her eagle plumes to raise,

And lose herself in sight;