The death of a saint.

WHY do we mourn departing friends, Or shake at death's alarms? 'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends, To call them to his arms. Are we not tending upwards too As fast as time can move? Nor should we wish the hours more slow, To keep us from our love.

Why should we tremble to convey, Their bodies to the grave; 'Twas there the Savior's body lay, And rose with pow'r to save.

The graves of all the saints he blest, And soft'ned ev'ry bed; Where shall the dying members rest, But with their dying head?

Thence he arose; ascending high, And show'd our feet the way; Up to the Lord the saints shall fly, At the great rising day.

Then let the last loud trumpet sound, And bid our kindred rise; Awake, ye nations under ground, Ye saints, ascend the skies.