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 towers;
The tall, the wise, the reverend 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 powers of quickening grace
To fit our souls to fly;
Then, when we drop this dying flesh,
We'll rise above the sky.
Source: The Voice of Praise: a collection of hymns for the use of the Methodist Church #880