1 Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,
Mine ears attend the cry;
"Ye living men, come view the ground
"Where you must shortly lie.

2 "Princes, this clay must be your Bbd,
"In spite of all your tow'rs;
"The tall, the wise, the rev'rend 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 pow'rs of quick'ning grace,
To fit our souls to fly;
Then, when we drop this dying flesh,
We'll rise above the sky.