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Turn, mortal, turn! thy danger know;
Turn, Christian, turn! thy soul apply
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.
THOU art gone to the grave; but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb:
Thy Saviour has passed through its portal before thee,
And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom.
Thou art gone to the grave; we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side;
But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,
And sinners may die, for the SINLESS has died. Thou art gone to the grave; and, its mansion forsaking,
Perchance thy weak spirit in fear lingered long ; But the mild rays of paradise beamed on thy
And the sound which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song.
Thou art gone to the grave; but we will not deplore thee,
Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide;
He gave thee, he took thee, and he will restore thee,
And death has no sting,for the Saviour has died.*
The following stanzas were written as an addition to the above hymn, by an English clergyman, on hearing of the decease of the author.
Thou art gone to the grave; and whole nations bemoan thee,
Who caught from thy lips the glad tidings of
Yet grateful, they still in their hearts shall enthrone thee,
And ne'er shall thy name from their memo
Thou art gone to the grave; but thy work shall not perish,
That work which the spirit of wisdom hath blest; His strength shall sustain it, his comforts shall cherish,
And make it to prosper, though thou art at rest.
ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS
O, Saviour of the faithful dead,
No more we cling to mortal clay,
Nor shrink to tread the darksome way
'Twas hard from those I loved to go, Who knelt around my bed,
Whose tears bedewed my burning brow, Whose arms upheld my head.
As fading from my dizzy view,
'T was dreadful, when th' accuser's power Assailed my sinking heart,
Recounting every wasted hour,
But, Jesus, in that mortal fray,
Thy blessed comfort stole, Like sunshine in a stormy day, Across my darkened soul.
When soon or late this feeble breath
When clothed in fleshly weeds again I wait thy dread decree,
Judge of the world, bethink thee then That thou hast died for me.