HYMN 63. (C. M.) A Funeral Thought.
I
Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,
My ears attend the cry,
‘Ye living men, come view the ground
‘Where you must shortly lie.
II
‘Princes, this clay must be your bed,
‘In spite of all your towers;
‘The tall, the wise, the reverend head
‘Must lie as low as ours.’
III
Great God, is this our certain doom?
And are we still secure?
Still walking downward to our tomb,
And yet prepare no more?
IV
Grant us the powers of quickening grace
To fit our souls to fly,
Then, when we drop this dying flesh,
We'll rise above the sky.
