Some while their cup is full can laugh at Death,
And light esteem that power which lends them breath;
But be that far,
As yon pale star,
From him who now its progress witnesseth!
Did men but see how near is his approach,
They would with morning sun, or nightly torch,
Themselves prepare,
And search with care,
And strictly watch each avenue and porch!
Nor would they rest, at business or in bed,
Till every foe was found, and captive led;
Till all the soul,
From stains most foul,
Was wash'd, or till the contrite tear was shed!
A fountain from the mount of God doth flow,
For all who will take time and pains to go,
Whose healing stream,
Doth freely teem,
To wash polluted sinners white as snow!
A soul thus wash'd shall joyful rise again,
By Death unscar'd, and on angelic wing,
Shall mount above,
To Him whose love
And power deprive the monster of his sting!