I DIE -- my limbs with icy feeling Bespeak that Death is near; His frozen hand each pulse is stealing; Yet still I do not fear! There is a hope -- not frail as that Which rests on human things -- The hope of an immortal state, And with the King of kings! And ye may gaze upon my brow, Which is not sad, tho' pale; These hope-illumin'd features show But little to bewail. Death should not chase the wonted bloom From off the Christian's face; Ill prelude of the bliss to come, Prepar'd by heavenly grace. Lament no more -- no longer weep That I depart from men; Brief is the intermediate sleep, And bliss awaits me then! |