428.
Death of the Wicked Man.
1
Death comes to all, and now to one,
Who has his course of folly run,
And gloried in his sin;
See, with what conflict he retires,
To fan the soul-consuming fires,
That lawless rage within!
2
What, in this searching hour of pain,
Would he not freely give, to gain
The good-man's envied state!
In silent agony he weeps;
He sow'd the seed which now he reaps,
From slumber roused too late!
3
Where is the scoff, the laughter loud?
Where now the look, self-centred, proud?
The boast, defying, where?
To dark despondency he sinks;
Confusion is the cup he drinks,
And his retreat, despair!
4
Advancing toward death's unknown shore,
Alarm'd, he hears the waters roar,
In new, and harrowing sound;
No beaten path, no comfort near,
Alone, no voice, no lamp to cheer,
But blackness all around!
5
Where are his bold companions fled?
Can they no light upon him shed?
So long, his heart, who won?
They all are broken reeds! his eye
Rolls round in fearful agony,
With hell, on earth, begun!
6
Lord! ere our final hour draw near,
May we the voice of wisdom hear,
And Christ, supremely prize!
In health, may we for death prepare,
And seek to dwell for ever there,
Where our best treasure lies!
