Indexes for The Sacred Harp, 2025 Edition

Mother, they say the stars are bright,
And the broad heav’ns are blue;
I dream of them by day, by night,
And think them all like you.
I cannot touch the distant skies,
The stars ne’er speak to me;
Yet their sweet images arise
And blend with thoughts of thee.

I know not why, but oft I dream
Of the fair land of bliss;
And when I hear thy voice, I deem
That heav’n is like to this.
And when my heart to thine is pressed,
The tears dry from my face;
Sweet pleasure warms my beating breast —
’Tis heav’n in thine embrace.

O mother, will the God above
Show tenderness like thee?
Will He bestow such care and love
On a poor girl like me?
Dear mother, leave me not alone,
Go with me when I die;
Lead thy blind daughter to the throne
And stay in yonder sky.