1 Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound, My ears attend the cry, "Ye living men, come view the ground "Where you must shortly lie.
2 "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."
3 Great God, is this our certain doom? And are we still secure? Still walking downward to our tomb, And yet prepare no more?
4 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.