O death, how dreadful is thy certain doom,
The beautiful all hidden from my eye
In the dark pit, where their stiff bodies lie!
And must I join them in the loathsome tomb?
Yet sure the spring-flow'r does not fail to bloom,
When wintry frosts give way to genial sky.
For body's happy change we need not sigh;
Nor for the spirit's flight from all earth's gloom.
Then, Death, thy presence brings me no affright,
But wakes my loud, exulting voice through grace,
A shout of glorious victor in the fight,
Or of the winner in the struggling race.
Death is quick transfer of the soul to heaven,
A boon to all Christ's friends in mercy given.