Oh! thou in whom the power dwells,
To heal or wound, to save or slay;
Whose hand alone the mandate seals,
That hastens or arrests decay;
Let me with pious fortitude,
Thy dispensations justify;
And in each great vicissitude,
With perfect faith on thee rely.

Oh! ye who have consigned to dust,
Some darling object of your care;
Fail not in heaven still to trust,
Whose mercy will your loss repair;
Nor let the bitter cup in vain,
Be tendered to your trembling lips;
For God, with beneficial pain,
Thus of its pride the spirit strips.

Mortals presume to call their own,
Blessings vouchsafed by grace divine;
Not as a gift but as a loan,
Father! will I consider mine.
And when thou wiliest to recall,
All that on earth I love the best;
Before thy footstool will I fall,
And bow to thy supreme behest.

The messengers of Death, surround
Alike, the palace and the cot;
Nor king, nor vassal can be found,
Who shall escape the common lot.
Let mighty conquerors declare,
If they can with disease contend;
Nor in their final struggle, share
The pangs, that meaner bosoms rend.

Pilgrims, whose aggregate of days,
With vast eternity compared,
But as a fleeting moment weighs,
For the last hour be prepared!
Wrestle with sin, watch, worship, praise
And glorify the Lord your God!
Who shall to life eternal raise,
The saints that sleep beneath the sod.