Preparation for Death, 61

Hide me by Thy presence, Lord,
From the dire infectious race,
From the men Thou call'st Thy sword,
From the gall of bitterness,
From the strife of tongues conceal,
Tongues inflamed with fire of hell.

In Thy tabernacle keep,
Till I bow my weary head,
Close mine eyes in lasting sleep,
Sink among the quiet dead,
Where the world no more molest,
Where the weary are at rest.

Weary of contention here,
Saviour, to Thy arms I fly,
Save Thine aged messenger,
Bid me get me up and die,
Die out of a world of strife,
Die into immortal life.

Made by pure consummate love
Meet and ready to depart,
Gladly would I now remove,
See Thee, Saviour, as Thou art,
Cherish'd in Thy loving breast,
Lull'd to everlasting rest.