1 Great God, I own thy sentence just And nature must decay; I yield my body to the dust To dwell with fellow-clay.
2 Yet faith may triumph o'er the grave, And trample on the tombs: My Jesus, my Redeemer lives, My God, my Saviour comes.
3 The mighty Conqueror shall appear High on a royal seat, And Death, the last of all his foes, Lie vanquish'd at his feet.
4 Tho' greedy worms devour my skin, And gnaw my wasting flesh, When God shall build my bones again, He clothes them all afresh.
5 Then shall I see thy lovely face With strong immortal eyes, And feast upon thy unknown grace With pleasure and surprise.