There--Let Thy Hands Be Folded Awhile In Sleep'S Repose; The Patient Hands That Wearied Not, But Earnestly And Nobly Wrought In Charity And Faith; And Let Thy Dear Eyes Close-- The Eyes That Looked Alway To God, Nor Quailed Beneath The Chastening Rod Of Sorrow; Fold Thou Thy Hands And Eyes For Just A Little While, And With A Smile Dream Of The Morrow. And, O White Voiceless Flower, The Dream Which Thou Shalt Dream Should Be A Glimpse Of Heavenly Things, For Yonder Like A Seraph Sings The Sweetness Of A Life With Faith Alway Its Theme; While Speedeth From Those Realms Above The Messenger Of That Dear Love That Healeth Sorrow. So Sleep A Little While, For Thou Shalt Wake And Sing Before Thy King When Cometh The Morrow.