On the Death of Mrs. Mary Horton, May 4, 1786, Aged Thirty-Four., Part 1

It is the Lord, whose will is done,
He to the end hath loved His own,
And now required His bride;
Who went her mansion to prepare,
Hath brought her home. His joy to share,
And triumph at His side.

Her mourning days are finish'd soon.
Her sun of life gone down at noon;
But why should we complain
That Mercy hath abridged her years.
And snatch'd her from our vale of tears,
In endless bliss to reign?

To keep her here in vain we strove:
She mounts! she claps her wings above!
She grasps the glittering prize!
In answer to our mended prayers,
Enjoying, with salvation's heirs,
The hfe that never dies.

And can we now our loss regret.
Or wish to tear her from her seat.
Where high enthroned she sings?
No: rather let us strive to' increase
The cloud of Jesu's witnesses,
Whom death to glory brings.

Pursuing her, as she her Lord,
And labouring for a full reward,
Our friend we soon shall join;
The praise of our salvation give
To Him that doth for ever live,
And to the Lamb Divine.

Hastening the universal doom,
O wouldst Thou, Lord, Thy power assume,
And bring the kingdom down;
The number of Thy saints complete.
And us, through patient faith made meet,
With joy eternal crown!