Remember, Lord, our mor­tal state,
How frail our life! how short the date!
Where is the man that draws his breath
Safe from dis­ease, se­cure from death?

Lord, while we see whole na­tions die,
Our flesh and sense re­pine and cry,
“Must death for ev­er rage and reign?
Or hast Thou made man­kind in vain?

Where is Thy pro­mise to the just?
Are not Thy ser­vants turned to dust?
But faith for­bids these mourn­ful sighs,
And sees the sleep­ing dust arise.

That glo­ri­ous hour, that dread­ful day,
Wipes the re­proach of saints away,
And clears the hon­or of Thy Word:
Awake, our souls, and bless the Lord.