The Terror of Death, by Death is cured

If Death were not for Sin from Heaven sent;
It could not be esteem'd a punishment;
To be deliver'd from our daily woe,
While 'twixt our Roses, Thorns, and Thistles grow,
So that our care should be, to weed our hearts
From soul excrescents, by such holy Arts,
As will that fatal sting of Sin destroy,
And so convert our sorrows into joy;
When we the Pangs of such a Death endure,
As doth produce both Punishment, and Cure.