George Washington Bethune (1805–1862)

THY tears are dried, sweet penitent; no more

Abandoned on the ground we see thee lie,

The precious word of life beneath thine eye,

Searching the sacred record o’er and o’er

To find His grace for sins thy thoughts deplore,

Who came for lost ones such as thee to die.

—Thou art forgiven.—’Neath a smiling sky,

E’en as thou didst with upward face adore,

(The holy Cross clasped closely to thy breast,)

Sleep has come o’er thee, worn and wearied

By anxious vigils; yet in slumber blest,

Heaven’s radiant glory circles round thy head,

Filling thy soul with visions of that rest

Where e’en repentance has no tears to shed!