S.M. Triumph over Death.

1 AND must this body die?
This well-wrought frame decay
And must these active limbs of mine
Lie mouldering in the clay?

2 Corruption, earth, and worms
Shall but refine this flesh;
Till my triumphant spirit comes
To put it on afresh.

3 God, my Redeemer, lives,
And ever from the skies
Looks down, and watches all my dust.
Till he shall bid it rise.

4 Arrayed in glorious grace
Shall these vile bodies shine;
And every shape and every face
Be heavenly and divine.

5 These lively hopes we owe,
Lord, to thy dying love:
O may we bless thy grace below,
And sing thy power above!