Sadly we sing, and with tremulous breath,
As we stand by the mystical stream,
In the valley and by the dark river of death,
And yet ’tis no more than a dream.
Only a dream, only a dream,
And glory beyond the dark stream;
How peaceful the slumber,
How happy the waking;
For death is only a dream.
Why should we weep when the weary ones rest
In the bosom of Jesus supreme,
In the mansions of glory prepared for the blest?
For death is no more than a dream.
Naught in the river the saints should appall,
Tho’ it frightfully dismal may seem;
In the arms of their Savior no ill can befall,
They find it no more than a dream.
Over the turbid and onrushing tide
Doth the light of eternity gleam;
And the ransomed the darkness and storm shall outride,
To wake with glad smiles from their dream.