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The Book of Praise.
Death is no more among our foes, Since Christ, the mighty Conqueror, rose ; Both power and sting the Saviour broke ; He died, and gave the finish'd stroke.
Saints die, and we should gently weep ; Sweetly in Jesus' arms they sleep ; Far from this world of sin and woe, Nor sin, nor pain, nor grief, they know.
Death no terrific foe appears ; An angel's lovely form he wears ; A friendly messenger he proves To every soul whom Jesus loves.
Death is a sleep ; and O ! how sweet To souls prepared its stroke to meet! Their dying beds, their graves are blest, For all to them is peace and rest.
Their bodies sleep ; their souls take wing. Uprise to Heaven, and there they sing With joy" before the Saviour's face, Triumphant in victorious grace.
Soon shall the earth's remotest bound Feel the Archangel's trumpet sound ; Then shall the grave's dark caverns shake, And joyful all the saints shall wake.
Bodiesiand souls shall then unite, Arrayed in glory, strong and bright; And all His saints will Jesus bring His face to see, His love to sing. |
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