The Wildwood Rose Will Grow

Our little boy has fled!
We know he is not dead!
"Of such the Kingdom is," Christ said.

The wildwood rose will grow,
And honeysuckles blow,
Where we have laid our Stewart low!

The birds will sing their song
All through the Summer long,
Above his grave, the trees among!

The brook will murmur by,
And glorious be the sky,
Where shattered now our fond hopes lie!

Sadly we bear the cross!
The world can give but dross,
As gain, for our too grievous loss.

We will not question now
Why death is on his brow!
Broken in hope, we bow, we bow!