On the death of the young.

WHEN blooming youth is snatch'd away By death's resistless hand Our hearts the mournful tribute pay, Which pity must demand.

The voice of this alarming scene, May ev'ry heart obey; Nor be the heav'nly warning vain, Which calls to watch and pray.

Oh, let us fly, to Jesus fly, Whose pow'rful arm can save; Then shall our hopes ascend on high, And, triumph o'er the grave.

Great God, thy Sov'reign grace impart, With cleansing, healing pow r; This only can prepare the heart, For death's surprising hour.