Dearest of names, our Lord, our king!
Jesus, Thy praise we hum­bly sing;
In cheer­ful songs will spend our breath,
And in Thee tri­umph over death.

Death is no more among our foes,
Since Christ the migh­ty Con­quer­or rose;
Both pow­er and sting the Sav­ior broke,
He died, and gave the fin­ished stroke.

Saints die, and we should gent­ly weep;
Sweetly in Je­sus’ arms they sleep;
Far from this world of sin and woe,
Nor sin, nor pain, nor grief they know.

Death no ter­ri­fic foe ap­pears,
An an­gel’s love­ly form he wears;
A friend­ly mes­sen­ger he proves
To ev­ery soul whom Je­sus loves.

Death is a sleep; and O, how sweet,
To souls pre­pared its stroke to meet!
Their dy­ing beds, their graves are blessed,
For all to them is peace and rest.

Their bo­dies sleep, their souls take wing,
Uprise to Hea­ven, and there they sing
With joy, be­fore the Sav­ior’s face
Triumphant in vic­to­ri­ous grace.

Soon shall the earth’s re­mot­est bound
Feel the arch­an­gel’s trum­pet sound;
Then shall the graves’ dark ca­verns shake,
And joy­ful, all the saints shall wake.

Bodies and souls shall then unite,
Arrayed in glo­ry strong and bright;
And all His saints will Je­sus bring,
His face to see, His love to sing.

O, may I live with Je­sus nigh,
And sleep in Je­sus when I die!
Then joy­ful, when from death I wake,
I shall eter­nal bliss par­take.