1 Stoop down, my thoughts, that us'd to rise,
Converse a while with death;
Think how a gasping mortal lies,
And pants away his breath.
2 His quivering lip hangs feebly down,
His pulses faint and few,
Then, speechless, with a doleful groan
He bids the world adieu.
3 But, O the soul that never dies!
At once it leaves the clay!
Ye thoughts, pursue it where it flies,
And track its wondrous way.
4 Up to the courts where angels dwell,
It mounts triumphing there;
Or devils plunge it down to hell
In infinite despair.
5 And must my body faint and die?
And must this soul remove?
O for some guardian angel nigh,
To bear it safe above!
6 Jesus, to thy dear faithful hand
My naked soul I trust,
And my flesh waits for thy command
To drop into my dust.
Source: Hymns, Selected and Original: for public and private worship (1st ed.) #247