Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,
My ears attend the cry:
“Ye living men, come view the ground,
Where you must shortly lie.
Princes this clay must be your bed,
In spite of all your tow’rs;
The tall, the wise, the rev’rend head,
Must lie as low as ours.”
Great God! is this our certain doom?
And are we still secure?
Still walking downward to the tomb,
And yet prepared no more
Grant us the pow’r of quick’ning grace,
To fit our souls to fly;
Then when we drop this dying flesh,
We’ll rise above the skies.