When the Sabbath was declining, just at twilight's
mystic hour,
Left the 'Upper Courts' an angel, sent to cull our
sweetest flower,
Not in judgment, not in anger, did this white-winged
seraph come,
But to lead a little Pilgrim through Death's Portal to
her home.

And our angel child was ready, aye, and anxious to
depart-
Not the slightest doubt o'ershadowed her trusting
little heart;
But with a brow as radiant as rainbow in the sky,
She whispered softly 'Mother, I'm not afraid to die.'

When shall these little, weary limbs lie down to sweet
repose,
'Mid the green, the verdant pastures where the limpid
water flows;
When shall I the Golden City sparkling in its beauty
see,
'When shall it be, my Saviour, O! when shall I be
free?'
Ere the week-day with its labors, its duties and its
care-
Was shared in, our darling was found on earth no
where;
But with the saints in glory, and the Saviour she
adored,
She's happy and at rest, for aye and ever with the
Lord.