The Passing-bell

Come, honest sexton, take thy spade, And let my grave be quickly made: Thou still art ready for the dead, Like a kind host, to make my bed. I now am come to be thy guest, Let me in some dark lodging rest, For I am weary, full of pain, And of my pilgrimage complain. On Heaven's decree I waiting lie, And all my wishes are to die. Hark, I hear my passing-bell, Farewell, my loving friends, farewell!

Make my cold bed, good sexton, deep, That my poor bones may safely sleep; Until that sad and joyful day, When from above a voice shall say, " Wake, all ye Dead, lift up your eyes, " The great Creator bids you rise." Then do I hope, among the just, To shake off this polluted dust; And, with new robes of glory drest, To have access among the blest. Hark, I hear my passing-bell, Farewell, my loving friends farewell!