Awake, my soul, nor slumbering lie,
Amid the gloomy haunts of death;
Perhaps the awful hour is nigh,
Commissioned for my parting breath.

That awful hour will soon appear,
Swift on the wings of time it flies,
When all that pains or pleases here,
Will vanish from my closing eyes.

Death calls my friends, my neighbors hence,
And none resist the fatal dart;
Continual warnings strike my sense,
And shall they fail to reach my heart?

Shall gay amusements rise between,
When scenes of horror spread around?
Death’s pointed arrows fly unseen,
But ah, how sure, how deep they wound!

Think, O my soul, how much depends,
On the short pe­ri­od of a day;
Shall time, which Heav’n in mercy lends,
Be negligently thrown away?

Thy remnant minutes strive to use,
Awake! rouse every active power!
And not in dreams or trifles lose,
This little now! this precious hour!

Lord of my life, inspire my heart,
With heav’nly ardor, grace divine;
Nor let Thy presence e’er depart,
For strength, and life, and death are Thine.

O teach me the celestial skill,
Each awful warning to improve!
And while my days are shortening still,
Prepare me for the joys above.

Ensure my nobler life on high,
Life, from a dying Savior’s blood!
Then, though my minutes swiftly fly,
They bear me nearer to my God.