1 Wake up my muse, condole the lost
Of those that mourn this day;
Let tears distill on every face,
And every mourner pray.
2 The tyrant, Death came rushing in,
Last night his power did shew;
Out of this world this child did take,
Death laid its visage low.
3 No more the pleasant child is seen
To please its parent's eye;
The tender plant, so fresh and green,
Is in eternity.
4 The golden bowl by death is broke,
The pitcher burst in twain,
The cistern-wheel has felt the stroke,
The pleasant child is slain.
5 The winding-sheet doth bind its limbs,
The coffin holds it fast,
To-day it's seen by all its friends,
But this must be the last.
6 Until the Lord doth come to judge
The nations great and small,
And you and I before him stand,
And at his presence fall.
Hymns and Spiritual Songs for the use of Christians, 1803
|First Line:||Wake up my muse, condole the loss|
|Title:||Lamenting the Loss of a Child|