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