It is a joyful thing to die

It is a joyful thing to die;

For though this world is fair,

I dream I see a lovelier one,

And fancy I am there.

Methinks that I am borne away

As soon as I have died;

And wander round a pleasant place,

With an angel by my side.

To that bright world I long to go,

I would not linger here;

Except for gentle mother's sake,

And yours, my sister dear.

But when I read my book to her,

And when I play with you,

I quite forget that glorious land,

And blessed Angel too.

Yet oft, when I am wearied grown

Of reading and of play,

These pleasant dreams come back again

And steal my heart away.

And then again I seem to wish,

That mother, you, and I

Could shut our eyes upon the world,

And all together die.

Ah, brother! if indeed it be

That heaven is so fair,

If it be such a pleasant place,

Oh, let us batten there!

Our mother wept when father died

Until her eyes were dim,

And oft I think she longs to go

And be at rest with him.

Ah, children dear! you speak a truth

Whose depth you little see;

Most blest it is to pass from hence

In infant purity.

Yet blest are also they who live

Through years of good and ill,

To serve their Lord, and day by day

To do his holy will.