Stretched on the bed of grief,
In si­lence long I lay;
For sore dis­ease and wast­ing pain
Had worn my strength away.

Just o’er the grave I hung;
No par­don met my eyes;
As bless­ings ne­ver greet the slain,
And hope shall ne­ver rise.

Sweet mer­cy to my soul
Revealed no charm­ing ray;
Before me rose a long, dark night,
With no suc­ceed­ing day.

I saw be­yond the tomb,
The aw­ful Judge ap­pear
Prepared to scan with strict ac­count
My bless­ings wast­ed here.

Then O how vain ap­peared
The joys be­neath the sky!
Like vi­sions past, like flow­ers that blow,
When win­try storms are nigh.

How mourned my sink­ing soul
The Sab­bath’s hours di­vine,
The day of grace, that pre­cious day;
Consumed in sense and sin.

Then to the Lord I prayed,
And raised a bit­ter cry—
Hear me, O God, and save my soul,
Lest I for­ev­er die.

He heard my hum­ble cry;
He saved my soul from death;
To Him I’ll give my heart and hands,
And con­se­crate my breath.

Ye sin­ners, fear the Lord,
While yet ’tis called to­day:
Soon will the aw­ful voice of death
Command your souls away.

Soon will the har­vest close;
The sum­mer soon be o’er;
And soon your in­jured, ang­ry God
Will hear your pray­ers no more.