At the Funeral of a Young Person

When blooming youth is snatch'd away
By death's resistless hand,
Our hearts the mournful tribute pay,
Which pity must demand.

While pity prompts the rising sigh,
O may this truth, impress'd
With awful pow'r — I too must die —
Sink deep in ev'ry breast,

Let this vain world engage no more
Behold the gaping tomb!
It bids us seize the present hour,
To-morrow, death may come,

The voice of this alarming scene
May ev'ry heart obey,
Nor be the heavenly warning vain,
Which calls to watch and pray.

O let us fly, to Jesus fly,
Whose pow'rful arm can save;
Then shall our hopes ascend on high,
And triumph o'er the grave.

Great God, thy sov'reign grace impart,
With cleansing, healing pow'r;
This only can prepare the heart
For death's surprizing hour.