1 Stoop down, my thoughts, that use to rise,
Converse awhile with death:
Think how a gasping mortal lies,
And pants away his breath.

2 His quivering lip hangs feebly down
His pulses faint and few,
Then, speechless, with a doleful groan
He bids the world adieu.

3 But, O the soul that never dies!
At once it leaves the clay!
Ye thoughts, pursue it where it flies,
And track its wondrous way.

4 Up to the courts where angels dwell,
It mounts triumphing there,
Or devils plunge it down to hell
In infinite despair.

5 And must my body faint and die?
And must this soul remove?
O for some guardian angel nigh
To bear it safe above!

6 Jesus, to thy dear faithful hand
My naked soul I trust,
And my flesh waits for thy command
To drop into my dust.