Why do we mourn de­part­ing friends,
Or shake at death’s alarms?
’Tis but the voice that Je­sus sends
To call them to His arms.

Are we not tend­ing up­ward, too,
As fast as time can move?
Nor would we wish the hours more slow
To keep us from our love.

Why should we trem­ble to con­vey
Their bo­dies to the tomb?
There the dear flesh of Je­sus lay,
And left a long per­fume.

The graves of all His saints He blessed,
And soft­ened ev­ery bed;
Where should the dy­ing mem­bers rest,
But with the dy­ing Head?

Thence He arose, as­cend­ing high,
And showed our feet the way;
Up to the Lord our flesh shall fly,
At the great ris­ing day.

Then let the last loud trum­pet sound,
And bid our kin­dred rise;
Awake, ye na­tions un­der ground;
Ye saints, as­cend the skies.