When the friends we love the best Lie in their churchyard bed, We must not cry too bitterly Over the happy dead.

Once in royal David's city Stood a lowly cattle shed, Where a Mother laid her Baby In a manger for His bed: Mary was that Mother mild Jesus Christ her little Child . . . With the poor, and mean, and lowly, Lived on earth our Savior Holy.

When the friends we love the best Lie in their churchyard bed, We must not cry too bitterly Over the happy dead.

There is a green hill far away, Without a city wall, Where the dear Lord was crucified, Who died to save us all.

The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate, God made them, high or lowly, And order'd their estate.

We are but little children weak Nor born in any high estate. . . . . There's not a child so small and weak But has his little cross to take, His little work of love and praise That he may do for Jesus' sake.

Christian children all must be Mild, obedient, good as He. . . . . For He is our childhood's pattern, Day by day like us He grew, He was little, weak, and helpless, Tears and smiles like us He knew; And He feeleth for our sadness, And He shareth in our gladness.