Why Do We Mourn Departing Friends,
Or Shake At Death’s Alarms?
‘Tis But The Voice That Jesus Sends,
To Call Them To His Arms.
The Graves Of All His Saints He Blessed,
And Softened Every Bed:
Where Should The Dying Members Rest,
But With Their Dying Head?
Thence He Arose, Ascending Higher,
And Showed Our Feet The Way:
Up To The Lord Our Flesh Shall Fly,
At The Great Rising-Day.
Then Let The Last Loud Trumpet Sound,
And Bid Our Kindred Rise;
Awake, Ye Nations Under Ground;
Ye Saints, Ascend The Skies.
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