1 No, I'll repine at death no more, But with a cheerful gasp resign To the cold dungeon of the grave These dying, withering limbs of mine.
2 Let worms devour my wasting flesh, And crumble all my bones to dust, My God shall raise my frame anew At the revival of the just.
3 Break, sacred morning, thro' the skies, Bring that delightful, dreadful day, Cut short the hours, dear Lord, and come, Thy lingering wheels, how long they stay!
4 [Our weary spirits faint to see The light of thy returning face, And hear the language of those lips Where God has shed his richest grace.]
5 Haste then upon the wings of love, Rouse all the pious sleeping clay, That we may join in heavenly joys, And sing the triumph of the day.