1 O, fragile glory of the bowers,
Ye fall no more to rise;
But bright and glorious hope is ours,
A hope beyond the skies.

2 We trust, when fades this feeble form,
And low our bodies rest,
Beyond the reach of blight or storm,
To bloom among the blest.

3 He, who bestowed upon the tree
The leaves that gaily wave,
To man a noble destiny,
A part immortal gave.

4 Then he, with faith’s aspiring eye,
Firm fixed on things above,
Might gain at last a home on high,
Through his Redeemer’s love.