On the Fear of Death

Why dost thou shrink, my soul, what terrour see,
To cause such high impiety,
That thus from age to age thou would'st endure?
Pray'st thou for his, for such a Cure,
As may more time in Vanity mis-spend?
To what doth this averseness tend,
That thus thou still enamour'd art
Of thy disease and smart?
Or do'st thou grudge the dirty grave
Should thy dead Carcase have?

This Giant Death, which hath so long controll'd
The World, submits unto the bold;
His threatning dart, nor point nor sharpness hath
To men of piety and faith.
Thou know'st all this, my soul, yet still dost cry,
Thou wouldst not die, and know'st not why.
If thou be'st frighted by a Name,
Then thou art much to blame,
And poorly weak, if terrour-struck,
By a fantastick look.

Women and Children teach thee a disdain,
To fear the passage, or the pain:
The ancient Heathens courted Death, to be
Remembred by Posterity:
And shall those Heathens then more Courage show,
Than thou that dost thy Maker know?
The misbelieving Christian may
Shake at his latter day;
Till then not mindful of his sin,
Nor the danger he is in.

But thou that hast convers'd with God and Death,
In Speculation, shall thy Breath
Unwillingly expire, into his hand,
That comes to fetch it by Command.
From God that made thee, art thou loth to be
Possess'd of thy Felicity,
Because thy Guide looks pale, and must
Convey thy flesh to dust?
Though that to worms converted be,
What is all this to thee?

Thou shalt not feel Death's sting, but instant have
Full joys and triumph o'er the Grave,
Where thy long lov'd Companion Flesh shall rest,
Until it be refin'd, new drest
For thy next wearing, in that holy place,
That Heav'n, where thou shalt face to face,
With Saints and Angels daily see
Thy God, and ever be
Replenish'd with celestial Bliss.
Oh my Soul, think on this.