Once more, ye sacred towers,
  Your solemn dirges sound;
Strew, loving hands, the April flowers,
  Once more to deck his mound.
  A nation mourns its dead,
  Its sorrowing voices one,
As Israel's monarch bowed his head
  And cried, "My son! My son!"

  Why mourn for him? — For him
  The welcome angel came
Ere yet his eye with age was dim
  Or bent his stately frame;
  His weapon still was bright,
  His shield was lifted high
To slay the wrong, to save the right,—
  What happier hour to die?

  Thou orderest all things well;
  Thy servant's work was done;
He lived to hear Oppression's knell,
  The shouts for Freedom won.
  Hark! from the opening skies
  The anthem's echoing swell,—
"O mourning Land, lift up thine eyes!
  God reigneth. All is well!"