Hope Beyond the Grave

I

My soul, this curious house of clay,
Thy present frail abode,
Must quickly fall to worms a prey,
And thou return to God.

II

Canst thou by faith survey with joy
The change before it come?
And say⁠—“Let death this house destroy,
I have a heav’nly home?”

III

The Saviour, whom I then shall see
With new admiring eyes,
Already has prepared for me
A mansion in the skies.

IV

I feel this mud-wall cottage shake,
And long to see it fall,
That I my willing flight may take
To Him who is my all.

V

Burden’d and groaning then no more,
My rescued soul shall sing,
As up the shining path I soar,
“Death, thou hast lost thy sting!”

VI

Dear Saviour, help us now to seek,
And know thy grace’s power,
That we may all this language speak
Before the dying hour.