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.