Sung By Male Voices To A National Air Of Holland

ONCE more, ye sacred towers, Your solemn dirges sound; Strew, loving hands, the April flowers, Once more to deck his mound. A nation mourns its dead, Its sorrowing voices one, As Israel's monarch bowed his head And cried, "My son! My son!"

Why mourn for him?--For him The welcome angel came Ere yet his eye with age was dim Or bent his stately frame; His weapon still was bright, His shield was lifted high To slay the wrong, to save the right,-- What happier hour to die?

Thou orderest all things well; Thy servant's work was done; He lived to hear Oppression's knell, The shouts for Freedom won. Hark!! from the opening skies The anthem's echoing swell,-- "O mourning Land, lift up thine eyes! God reigneth. All is well!"