DEATH OF A FATHER.
127
For sure it were an ingrate's deed
To murmur or repine,
That such a life, my sire, was closed
By such as death as thine.
But thou, our God, who know'st our frame,
Whose shield is o'er us spread,
When every idol of our love
Is desolate and dead,
Father and mother may forsake,
Yet be Thou still our trust,
And let thy chastenings cleanse the soul
From vanity and dust.
