Let un­be­liev­ers, void of grace,
Tremble at death’s alarms;
Fearless we meet its cold em­brace,
With Je­sus in our arms.

What tho’ the ene­my should spread
His ter­rors all abroad;
Shall that the ob­ject be of dread,
Which brings us home to God.

Dismissed from clay, the spir­it flies,
And near its Sav­ior shines;
The lep­rous house de­mol­ished lies,
And dust our dust re­fines.

Death, death is yours, ye saints pro­claim
The tri­umphs of your Lord;
Jesus! oh may the sac­red name,
Be loved, re­vered, ad­ored!