When bloom­ing youth is snatched away,
By death’s re­sist­less hand,
Our hearts the mourn­ful tri­bute pay,
Which pity must demand.

While pi­ty prompts the ris­ing sigh,
O may this truth, im­pressed
With aw­ful pow­er—I too must die—
Sink deep in ev­ery breast.

Let this vain world en­gage no more;
Behold the gap­ing tomb!
It bids us seize the pre­sent hour,
Tomorrow, death may come.

The voice of this alarm­ing scene,
May ev­ery heart ob­ey,
Nor be the heav’n­ly warn­ing vain,
Which calls to watch and pray.

O let us fly, to Je­sus fly,
Whose pow­er­ful arm can save;
Then shall our hopes as­cend on high,
And tri­umph o’er the grave.

Great God, Thy so­ver­eign grace im­part,
With cleans­ing, heal­ing pow­er;
This on­ly can pre­pare the heart,
For death’s sur­pris­ing hour.