 | The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 |  |
Funeral Hymn
1
Fruitless the toils which harrass man;His anxious cares for wealth or pow'r;
Life's longest period's but a span,
And soon he meets his destined hour.
2
Death strikes! fell tyrant! less he lies,And those that loved him round him mourn;
But vain their tears & vain their sighs,
For life once fled has no return.
3
And is there nothing that can boast,Its various ills to make us bear?
Is all in disappointment lost,
Without one prospect worth our care?
126
4
Yes, there's a brighter, a heavenly prizeDeserves our care, our utmost pains;
You blooming fields above the skies,
Where Seraphs sing, where Jesus reigns.
5
With these in view & these our aim,Life's deepest woes we can support.
And immortality our claim,
Who'll dare to say that life is short?
| The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | |