1 Stoop down, my thoughts, that use to rise, Converse awhile with death: Think how a gasping mortal lies, And pants away his breath.
2 His quivering lip hangs feebly down His pulses faint and few, Then, speechless, with a doleful groan He bids the world adieu.
3 But, O the soul that never dies! At once it leaves the clay! Ye thoughts, pursue it where it flies, And track its wondrous way.
4 Up to the courts where angels dwell, It mounts triumphing there, Or devils plunge it down to hell In infinite despair.
5 And must my body faint and die? And must this soul remove? O for some guardian angel nigh To bear it safe above!
6 Jesus, to thy dear faithful hand My naked soul I trust, And my flesh waits for thy command To drop into my dust.