1 Gone, gone, gone from our home,
God hath recalled thee
In thy youthful bloom.
Death’s icy fingers
Rest upon thee now;
Our fond gaze lingers
On thy pallid brow.

2 Gone, gone, gone to thy tomb;
But ‘tis not cheerless,
Hope dispels its gloom,
While we are weeping
O’er the hallow’d ground,
Thou art but sleeping
Till the trump shall sown.

3 Gone, gone, gone to the blest;
Earth had its pleasures,
But ‘twas not thy rest;
Sin and temptation
Were thy sorrow here,
Then full salvation
Is thy portion there.