The sleep of death.

DEATH'S but a sleep, why should we weep For those in Christ who die? Since this we know, to peace they go, And joys possess on high.

Altho' to dust their bodies must Be turn' d beneath the clod; Yet they shall rise above the skies, And ever live with God.

Their happy days are spent in praise, While here we sigh and groan: Could we but see how blest they be, 'Twould make us cease to moan.

If there was end, 'twould trouble send, And would eclipse the joy; But 'tis not so, they'll never go Out of that sweet employ.

When they've been there ten thousand years, And thousands more are done; They've no less days to sing God's praise, Than when they first begun.