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Turn, mortal, turn! thy danger know;

Where'er thy foot can tread
The earth rings hollow from below,

And warns thee of her dead.

Turn, Christian, turn! thy soul apply

To truths divinely given ;
The bones that underneath thee lie

Shall live for hell or heaven.


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 be

hold thee, Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy


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

waking, And the sound which thou heard'st was the ser

aphim'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

peace : Yet grateful, they still in their hearts shall en

throne thee, And ne'er shall thy name from their memo

ries cease.

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.


0, Saviour of the faithful dead,

With whom thy servants dwell, Though cold and green the turf is spread

Above their narrow cell,

No more we cling to mortal clay,

We doubt and fear no inore,
Nor shrink to tread the darksome way

Which thou hast trod before.

'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,

I sought their forms in vain, The bitterness of death I knew,

And groaned to live again.

'Twas dreadful, when th' accuser's power

Assailed my sinking heart, Recounting every wasted hour,

And each unworthy part:

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

No more to thee shall pray, Support ine through the vale of death,

And in the darksoine way.

When clothed in fleshly weeds again

I wait thy dread decree, Judge of the world, bethink thee then

That thou hast died for me.

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