Triumph over death.

GREAT God I own thy sentence just. That nature must decay; I yield my body to the dust, To dwell with fellow clay.

Yet faith may triumph o'er the graves, And trample on the tombs, My Jesus, my Redeemer lives, My God, my Savior comes.

The mighty conq'ror shall appear High on a royal seat, And death, the last of all his foes, Lie vanquished at his feet.

Then shall I see thy lovely face, With strong immortal eyes, And feast upon thy unknown grace With pleasure and surprise.