MY soul, the final hour will come, Quickly it hastens on, To bear this body to the tomb, And thee to scenes unknown.
My frame, from striving here with woes, Shall sigh and sink away, And you, my eyelids, then shall close On this world’s long-loved ray.
Where—in that hour—shall I receive Relief for all my pain? Though all earth’s rulers were my friends, They all would help in vain!
Great King of nature and of grace, To Thee my spirit flies From the deep pangs of death’s distress Before Thy pitying eyes.
O seal me by that mighty power, Which to Thy love belongs; May darkness veil my eyes no more, And sight be turned to songs.
Philip Doddridge, 1702-51