One se­pul­cher, one lit­tle spot,
The pil­grim meek did buy;
Other do­main he seek­eth not,
Enough for him that hal­lowed lot
Wherein his dead may lie.

Yet faith in­scribes a pre­cious name
Upon that lone­ly tomb,
Which shall to end­less years pro­claim
How hope pur­sues its truth­ful aim,
And looks for things to come.

Machpelah must again un­fold,
And its loved dead re­store;
The grave may not for ev­er hold
The ash­es in its bo­som rolled;
They sleep to wake once more.

The pro­mise was not said in vain,
This land is all thine own;
Machpelah’s dead shall rise again
To share Mes­si­ah’s glo­ri­ous reign,
And wear th’un­fad­ing crown.

How blest to live, to die, in faith,
And with ex­ult­ing joy
To feel with life’s last ebb­ing breath
How sweet, how pre­cious is the death
Which wafts the soul on high.