How still and peaceful is the grave!
where, life's vain tumults past,
Th' appointed house, by Heav'n's decree,
receives us all at last.
The wicked there from troubling cease,
their passions rage no more;
And there the weary pilgrim rests
from all the toils he bore.
There rest the pris'ners, now released
from slavery's sad abode;
No more they hear th' oppressor's voice,
or dread the tyrant's rod.
There servants, masters, small and great,
partake the same repose;
And there, in peace, the ashes mix
of those who once were foes.
All, levelled by the hand of Death,
lie sleeping in the tomb;
Till God in judgment calls them forth,
to meet their final doom.