LESSON XXII. On Death

Lord, I confess thy sentence just, That sinful man should turn to dust; That I ere long should yield my breath, The captive of all conquering death. To distant worlds, and seats unknown, My naked spirit must be gone: To God its maker must return, And ever joy, or ever mourn. Awake, my soul, without delay, That if God summons thee this day. Thou cheerful at his call may rise, And spring to life beyond the skies.