A thought of death and glory.

My soul, come meditate the day,

And think how near it stands,

When thou must quit this house of clay,

And fly to unknown lands.

[And you, mine eyes, look down and view

The hollow, gaping tomb;

This gloomy prison waits for you,

Whene'er the summons come.]

O could we die with those that die,

And place us in their stead,

Then would our spirits learn to fly,

And converse with the dead:

Then should we see the saints above

In their own glorious forms,

And wonder why our souls should love

To dwell with mortal worms.

[How we should scorn these clothes of flesh,

These fetters, and this load!

And long for ev'ning to undress,

That we may rest with God.]

We should almost forsake our clay

Before the summons come,

And pray and wish our souls away

To their eternal home.