And must this bo­dy die?
This mor­tal frame de­cay?
And must these ac­tive limbs of mine
Lie mol­der­ing in the clay?

Corruption, earth, and worms
Shall but re­fine this flesh,
Till my tri­um­phant spi­rit comes
To put it on afresh.

God my Re­deem­er lives,
And oft­en from the skies
Looks down, and watch­es all my dust,
Till He shall bid it rise.

Arrayed in glo­ri­ous grace
Shall these vile bo­dies shine,
And ev­ery shape, and ev­ery face,
Look heav’n­ly and divine.

These live­ly hopes we owe
To Je­sus’ dy­ing love;
We would adore His grace be­low,
And sing His pow­er above.

Dear Lord, ac­cept the praise
Of these our hum­ble songs,
Till tunes of nob­ler sound we raise
With our im­mor­tal tongues.