4. O’ this is but the world’s unfeeling way
And like a demon’ tis its custom still’
To laugh at sorrow, and then coldly kill
Who tell us man for man has sympathy
Who say that tears arising out of pain.
Happy’ thrice happy thus early to leave,
Earth and its sorrow,
For heaven and its bliss’.
Happy’ thrice happy
Thea lord shall there meet thee.