When blooming youth is snatched away

By death’s resistless hand,

Our hearts the mournful tribute pay,

Which pity must demand.

2 While pity prompts the rising sigh,

O may this truth, impressed

With awful power, “I too must die,”

Sink deep in every breast.

3 Let this vain world engage no more;

Behold the opening tomb:

It bids us seize the present hour:

To-morrow death may come.

4 O let us fly—to Jesus fly,

Whose powerful arm can save;

Then shall our hopes ascend on high,

And triumph o’er the grave.

5 Great God thy sovereign grace impart,

With cleansing, healing power;

This only can prepare the heart

For death’s approaching hour.