1 Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound
My ears attend the cry;
"Ye living men, come view the ground
"Where you must shortly lie.
2 "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."
3 Great GOD! is this our certain doom!
And are we still secure!
Still walking downward to our tomb,
And yet prepare no more!
4 Grant us the pow'rs of quickning grace,
To fit our souls to fly;
Then, when we drop this dying flesh,
We'll rise above the sky.
|First Line:||Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound|
|Title:||A Funeral Thought|