Hark! from the tombs a dole­ful sound;
My ears, at­tend the cry;
“Ye liv­ing men, come view the ground
Where you must short­ly lie.

Princes, this clay must be your bed,
In spite of all your tow­ers;
The tall, the wise, the re­ver­end head
Must lie as low as ours!

Great God! is this our cer­tain doom?
And are we still se­cure?
Still walk­ing down­ward to our tomb,
And yet pre­pare no more?

Grant us the pow­ers of quick­en­ing grace,
To fit our souls to fly,
Then, when we drop this dy­ing flesh,
We’ll rise above the sky.