Sleep, Christian warrior, sleep,
Life’s fitful dream is o’er,
Thy pain-tossed bark is anchored
Safe on the golden shore.
’Neath the green sward we lay thee
Thus early to thy rest,
And press the sod thus lightly,
Upon thy gentle breast.
Though but in manhood’s prime,
When the dread summons came,
To hush the voice so well attuned
To preaching “In His Name.”
Thou did’st not murmur, but with joy
Obeyed the Master’s word,
And rapture crowned did’st enter
The palace of thy Lord.
Then sweetly sleep, dear Rector,
Thy grave we’ll deck with flowers,
An earnest of that Better Land
Of ever blooming bowers.
Around this spot a halo twines,
While angels vigils keep,
And we rejoice that thus “He gives
To His beloved sleep.”