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.

Souls in heathen darkness lying, where no light has broken through, souls that Jesus bought by dying, whom his soul in travail knew.... Haste, o haste and spread the tidings, let no shore be left untrod, no lost brother's bitter chidings haunt us from the further sod tell the heathen all the precious truths of God.

We praise Thee, Lord, of all the earth, for love and joy, for light and mirth, for every charm of sense and right, and blessings boundless as Thy might.... But most we praise the love that gave thine own dear Son to seek and save, for joy all other joys excelling, for purest light and life indwelling.

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.

He guides us into pastures green, He leads to bowers of bliss, Our Father lives, the God unseen, and Christ our Shepherd is.

All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful, The Lord God made them all.

Christian children all must be mild, obedient, good as He.

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