1 The bosom where I oft have lain,
And slept my infant hours away,
Will never beat for me again,
For it lies dead, and wrapped in clay.

2 How many were the silent prayers
My mother offered up for me;
How many were the bitter cares
She felt when none but God could see.

3 Well, she is gone, and now in Heav’n
She sings His praise, who died for her:
And to her hand a harp is given,
And she’s a heavenly worshipper.

4 O, let me think of all she said,
And all the kind advice she gave;
And let me do it now she’s dead,
And sleeping in her lowly grave.

5 And let me choose the path she chose,
And her I soon again may see,
Beyond this world of sin and woes,
With Jesus, in eternity.