1 "Why flow these torrents of distress?"
(The gentle Savior cries)
"Why are my sleeping saints surveyed
With unbelieving eyes!
2 "Death's feeble arm shall never boast,
A Friend of Christ is slain;
Nor o'er their meaner part in dust
A lasting power retain.
3 "I come, on wings of love I come,
The slumberers to awake;
My voice shall reach the deepest tomb,
And all its bonds shall break.
4 "Touched by my hand, in smiles they rise;
They rise to sleep no more;
But robed with light and crowned with joy,
To endless day they soar.
5 Jesus, our faith receives thy word;
And, though fond nature weep,
Grace learns to hail the pious dead,
And emulate their sleep.
6 Our willing souls thy summons wait
With them to rest and praise;
So let thy much-loved presence cheer
These separating days.
The Christian's duty, exhibited in a series of hymns, 1791