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.