O, Saviour of the faithful dead,
With whom thy servants dwell,

O, Saviour of the faithful dead,
With whom thy servants dwell,
Though cold and green the turf is spread
Above their narrow cell, –

No more we cling to mortal clay,
We doubt and fear no more,
Nor shrink to tread the darksome way
Which thou hast trod before.

'Twas hard from those I loved to go,
Who knelt around my bed,
Whose tears bedewed my burning brow,
Whose arms upheld my head.

As fading from my dizzy view,
I sought their forms in vain,
The bitterness of death I knew,
And groaned to live again.

'Twas dreadful, when th' accuser's power
Assailed my sinking heart,
Recounting every wasted hour,
And each unworthy part:

But, Jesus, in that mortal fray,
Thy blessed comfort stole,
Like sunshine in a stormy day,
Across my darkened soul.

When soon or late this feeble breath
No more to thee shall pray,
Support me thorugh the vale of death,
And in the darksome way.

When clothed in fleshly weeds again
I wait thy dread decree,
Judge of the world, bethink thee then
That thou hast died for me.

~ Reginald Heber

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