Wrapt in a Christ­less shroud,
He sleeps the Christ­less sleep;
Above him, the eter­nal cloud,
Beneath, the fie­ry deep.

Laid in a Christ­less tomb,
There, bound with fe­lon-chain,
He waits the ter­rors of his doom,
The judg­ment and the pain.

O Christ­less shroud, how cold,
How dark, O Christ­less tomb!
O grief that ne­ver can grow old,
O endless, hope­less doom!

O Christ­less sleep, how sad!
What wak­ing shalt thou know?
For thee no star, no dawn­ing glad,
Only the last­ing woe!

To rocks and hills in vain
Shall be the sin­ner’s call;
O day of wrath, and death and pain,
The lost soul’s fu­ner­al!

O Christ­less soul, awake,
Ere thy last sleep be­gin!
O Christ, the sleep­er’s slum­bers break,
Burst Thou the bands of sin!