Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,
Mine ears, attend the cry;
Ye living men, come view the ground
Where you must shortly lie,
(Repeat previous line twice).
(Repeat previous line).
"Princes, this clay must be your bed,
In spite of all your towers;
The tall the wise the reverend head
Must lie as low as ours."
"The tall the wise the reverend head
Great God, is this our certain doom?
And are we still secure?
Still walking downward to the tomb,
And yet prepare no more!
Grant us the power of quickening grace,
To fit our souls to fly;
Then, when we drop this dying flesh,
We'll rise above the sky.