1 Great God, I own thy sentence just
And nature must decay;
I yield my body to the dust
To dwell with fellow-clay.
2 Yet faith may triumph o'er the grave,
And trample on the tombs:
My Jesus, my Redeemer lives,
My God, my Saviour comes.
3 The mighty Conqueror shall appear
High on a royal seat,
And Death, the last of all his foes,
Lie vanquish'd at his feet.
4 Tho' greedy worms devour my skin,
And gnaw my wasting flesh,
When God shall build my bones again,
He clothes them all afresh.
5 Then shall I see thy lovely face
With strong immortal eyes,
And feast upon thy unknown grace
With pleasure and surprise.