1
Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,
My ears attend the cry:
“Ye living men, come view the ground
Where you must shortly lie.
2
“Princes, this clay must be your bed,
In spite of all your tow’rs;
The tall, the wise, the reverend head,
Shall lie as low as ours.”
3
Great God! is this our certain doom!
And are we still secure!
Still walking downward to the tomb,
And yet prepar’d no more!
4
Grant us the pow’r of quick’ning grace,
To fit our souls to fly;
Then, when we drop this dying flesh,
We’ll rise above the sky.