1 A solemn march we make,
Towards the silent grave,
A lodging all must quickly take,
And carnal pleasures leave.
2 O what a striking scene,
In this cold grave appears,
A mortal turned to dust again,
Quite spun out all his years.
3 And we who now attend,
Must soon resign our breath,
God will the solemn summons send,
By dreadful ghastly death.
4 If myself the next should be,
That crumble with the dust;
My soul--what then becomes of thee?
Hast thou a lot with Christ?
5 Since I attended here,
My moments swiftly glide,
And death upon their wings they bear
A quick perpetual tide.
6 Now let me home return,
And strive my soul to save;
Lest I in hell should ever burn,
And, with the damned rave.
7 Jesus, despised friend,
I'll slight thy love no more;
Dear Saviour no that spirit send
Which I so grieved before.
8 Then I'll prepare to meet,
My Jesus at his bar,
For ever worship at his feet,
And sing his praises there.
Hymns and Spiritual Songs for the use of Christians, 1803
