Hope Beyond the Grave

My soul, this curious house of clay, Thy present frail abode, Must quickly fall to worms a prey, And thou return to God.

Canst thou by faith survey with joy The change before it come? And say—“Let death this house destroy, I have a heav’nly home?”

The Saviour, whom I then shall see With new admiring eyes, Already has prepared for me A mansion in the skies.

I feel this mud-wall cottage shake, And long to see it fall, That I my willing flight may take To Him who is my all.

Burden’d and groaning then no more, My rescued soul shall sing, As up the shining path I soar, “Death, thou hast lost thy sting!”

Dear Saviour, help us now to seek, And know thy grace’s power, That we may all this language speak Before the dying hour.