Come, come with me to the old churchyard,
I so well know those paths 'neath the soft green sward.
Friends in there that we want to regard;
We can trace out their names in the old churchyard.
Mourn not for them, their trials are o'er,
And why weep for those who will weep no more?
For sweet is their sleep, though cold and hard
Their pillows they be in the old churchyard.
I know that it's vain when our friends depart
To breathe kind words to a broken heart;
And I know that the joy of life is marred
When we follow friends to the old churchyard.
But were I at rest 'neath yonder tree,
Why would you weep, my friends, for me?
I'm so wayworn, why would you retard
The peace I seek in the old churchyard?
Why weep for me, for I'm ready to go
To that haven of rest where no tears ever flow;
And I fear not to enter that dark lonely tomb
Where our saviour has lain and conquered the gloom.
I rest in the hope that one bright day
Sunshine will burst through this prison of clay,
And Gabriel's trumpet and the voice of the Lord
Will wake up the dead in the old churchyard.
