Shall rise in full immortal prime
And bloom to fade no more.
5 Then cease, fond nature! cease thy tears Religion points on high:
There everlasting spring appears,
And joys that cannot die.
715. At the Funeral of a young Person. WHEN blooming youth is snatch'd awar By death's resistless hand,
Our hearts the mournful tribute pay
Which pity must demand.
2 While pity prompts the rising sigh,
O, may this truth, imprest
With awful power, I too must die:'
Sink deep in every breast.
Let this vain world engage no more;
Behold the gaping tomb!
It bids us seize the present hour:
To-morrow death may come.
4 The voice of this alarming scene
May every heart obey;
Nor be the heavenly warning vain,
Which calls to watch and pray.
Oh, let us fly-to Jesus fly,
Whose powerful arm can save;
Then shall our hopes ascend on high,
And triumph o'er the grave.
6 Great God! thy sovereign grace impart,
With cleansing, healing power;
This only can prepare the heart
For death's surprising hour.
1 "SPIRIT-leave thine house of clay! Lingering dust-resign thy breath!
Spirit-cast thy chains away!
Dust-be thou dissolv'd in death!"
Thus th' Almighty Saviour speaks,
While the faithful Christian dies!
Thus the bonds of life he breaks,
And the ransom'd captive flies!
"Prisoner-long detain❜d below!
Prisoner now with freedom blest!
Welcome-from a world of wo!
Welcome to a land of rest!"
Thus the choir of angels sing,
As they bear the soul on high!
While with hallelujahs ring
All the region of the sky!
3 Grave-the guardian of our dust!
Grave-the treasury of the skies!
Every atom of thy trust,
Rests in hope again to rise!
Hark! the judgment-trumpet calls!
"Soul-rebuild thy house of clay—
Immortality thy walls,
And Eternity thy day!"—
1 FROM his low bed of mortal dust, Escap'd the prison of his clay,
The new inhabitant of bliss
To heav'n directs his wond'rous way.
Ye fields, that witness'd once his tears,
Ye winds, that wafted oft his sighs,
Ye mountains, where he breath'd his pray'rs,
When sorrow's shadows veil'd his eyes;
3 No more the weary pilgrim mourns,
No more affliction wrings his heart;
Th' unfetter'd soul to God returns-
For ever he and anguish part!
Receive, O earth, his faded form,
In thy cold bosom let it lie;
Safe let it rest from ev'ry storm—
Soon must it rise, no more to die!
718. The Death and Burial of a Saint. WHY do we mourn departing friends?
Or shake at death's alarms?
'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends
To call them to his arms.
2 Are we not tending upward too
As fast as time can move?
Nor would we wish the hours more slow,
To keep us from our love.
3 Why should we tremble to convey
Their bodies to the tomb?
There the dear flesh of Jesus lay,
And left a long perfume.
4 The graves of all his saints he bless'd,
And soften'd every bed;
Where should the dying members rest,
But with the dying Head?
5 Thence he arose, ascending high,
And show'd our feet the way;
Up to the Lord our flesh shall fly
At the great rising-day.
6 Then let the last loud trumpet sound,
And bid our kindred rise,
Awake, ye nations under ground,
Ye saints, ascend the skies.
N vain my fancy strives to paint
The moment after death;
The glories that surround a saint,
When yielding up his breath.
2 One gentle sigh his fetters breaks,
We scarce can say, "He's gone!"
Before the willing spirit takes
Its mansions near the throne.
3 Faith strives, but all its efforts fail,
To trace the spirit's flight;
No eye can pierce within the veil
Which hides the world of light.
4 Thus much (and this is all) we know,
Saints are completely blest;
Have done with sin, and care, and wo,
And with their Saviour rest.
5 On harps of gold they praise his name,
His face they always view,
Then let us foll'wers be of them,
That we may praise him too.
HEN life's tempestuous storms are o'er
How calm he meets the friendly shore,
Who liv'd averse from sin!
Such peace on virtue's path attends,
That, where the sinner's pleasure ends,
The Christian's joys begin.
2 See smiling patience smooth his brow!
See bending angels downwards bow,
To lift his soul on high!
While, eager for the blest abode,
He joins with them to praise the God,
Who taught him how to die.
No sorrow drowns his lifted eyes;
No horror wrests the struggling sighs,
As from the sinner's breast:
His God, the God of peace and love,
Pours kindly solace from above,
And heals his soul with rest.
O grant, my Saviour, and my friend!
Such joys may gild my peaceful end,
492
So calm my ev'ning close;
While, loos'd from ev'ry earthly tie,
With steady confidence I fly
To thee from whom 1 rose!
721. Death and immediate Glory. 2 Cor. iv. 8. THERE is a house not made with hands, Eternal and on high;
And here my spirit waiting stands,
Till God shall bid it fly.
2 Shortly this prison of my clay
Must be dissolv'd and fall,
Then, O my soul, with joy obey
Thy heavenly Father's call.
3 'Tis he, by his almighty grace,
That forms thee fit for heaven,
And as an earnest of the place,
Has his own Spirit given.
4 We walk by faith of joys to come,
Faith lives upon his word;
But while the body is our home
We're absent from the Lord.
'Tis pleasant to believe thy grace,
But we had rather see;
We would be absent from the flesh,
And present, Lord, with thee.
722. Blessed are they that die in the Lord.
H ARK! from on high a solemn voice;
Let all attentive hear!
"Twill make each pious heart rejoice, And vanquish ev'ry fear.
2 "Thrice blessed are the pious dead,
Who in the Lord shall die;
Their weary flesh, as on a bed,
Safe in the grave shall lie.
|