Oh Sav­ior of the faith­ful dead,
With whom Thy ser­vants dwell,
Though cold and green the turf is spread
Above their nar­row cell—
No more we cling to mor­tal clay,
We doubt and fear no more.
Nor shrink to tread the dark­some way
Which Thou hast trod before!

’Twas hard from those I loved to go,
Who knelt around my bed,
Whose tears be­dewed my burn­ing brow,
Whose arms up­held my head!
As, fad­ing from my diz­zy view,
I sought their forms in vain;
The bit­ter­ness of death I knew,
And groaned to live again.

’Twas dread­ful when th’Ac­cus­er’s pow­er
Assailed my sink­ing heart,
Recounting ev­ery wast­ed hour,
And each un­wor­thy part:
But, Je­sus! in that mor­tal fray,
Thy bless­èd com­fort stole,
Like sun­shine in a stor­my day,
Across my dark­ened soul!

When soon or late, this fee­ble breath
No more to Thee shall pray,
Support me through the vale of death,
And in the dark­some way!
When clothed in flesh­ly weeds again
I wait Thy dread de­cree;
Judge of the world! be­think Thee then
That Thou hast died for me.