Hora Novissima

Whene’er goes forth Thy dread command, And my last hour is nigh, Lord, grant me in a Christian land, As I was born, to die.

I pray not, Lord, that friends may be, Or kindred, standing by— Choice blessing! which I leave to Thee To grant me or deny.

But let my failing limbs beneath My Mother’s smile recline; And prayers sustain my labouring breath From out her sacred shrine.

And let the Cross beside my bed In its dread Presence rest: And let the absolving words be said, To ease a laden breast.

Thou, Lord, where’er we lie, canst aid; But He, who taught His own To live as one, will not upbraid The dread to die alone.