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.