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Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound


Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound;
My ears, attend the cry;
Ye living men, come view the ground
Where you must shortly lie.

Princes, this clay must be your bed,
In spite of all your towers;
The tall, the wise, the revrend head
Must lie as low as ours!

Great God! is this our certain doom?
And are we still secure?
Still walking downward to our tomb,
And yet prepare no more?

Grant us the powers of quickning grace,
To fit our souls to fly,
Then, when we drop this dying flesh,
Well rise above the sky.



         

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