The feeble pulse, the gasping breath,
The clenched teeth, the glazed eye,

The feeble pulse, the gasping breath,
The clenched teeth, the glazed eye,
Are these thy sting, thou dreadful Death?
O Grave, are these thy victory?

The mourners by our parting bed,
The wife, the children weeping nigh,
The dismal pageant of the dead, –
These, these are not thy victory.

But, from the much-loved world to part,
Our lust untamed, our spirit high,
All nature struggling at the heart,
Which dying, feels it dare not die.

To dream through life a gaudy dream
Of pride and pomp and luxury,
Till wakened by the nearer gleam
Of burning, boundless agony;

To meet o'er soon our angry King,
Whose love we passed unheeded by;
Lo this, O Death, thy deadliest sting,
O Grave, and this thy victory.

O Searcher of the secret heart,
Who deigned for sinful man to die,
Restore us ere the spirit part,
Nor give to hell the victory.

~ Reginald Heber

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