1 My soul, come meditate the day, And think how near it stands, When thou must quit this house of clay, And fly to unknown lands.
2 [And you, mine eyes, look down and view The hollow gaping tomb, This gloomy prison waits for you Whene'er the summons come.]
3 O could we die with those that die, And place us in their stead, Then would our spirits learn to fly, And converse with the dead:
4 Then should we see the saints above In their own glorious forms, And wonder why our souls should love To dwell with mortal worms.
5 [How we should scorn these clothes of flesh, These fetters and this load! And long for evening to undress, That we may rest with God.]
6 We should almost forsake our clay Before the summons come, And pray, and wish our souls away To their eternal home.