For me there'll be no great display,
No turning out of people,
When I do quit my house of clay,
Nor tolling from the steeple
Of yon tower with its tin capped dome,
Whose bell the time is telling,
When some lone wanderer reaches home —
His narrow churchyard dwelling.
Nor yet will pompous equipage,
Or such like things sublun'ral,
Nor music sweet with charms engage
Those who attend my funeral.
Nor will I care if but my death
Take place while friends are tending;
And I can see with eye of faith
My blessed Saviour bending
Down upon me a gracious eye,
And bid my spirit enter
Into her rest. O, then I'd fly
And cleave to Him — - the Center
Of those sweet joys which do abound
In yon bright world of Glory,
Where I shall hear the blissful sound
Of that delightful Story,
How Jesus did our cause engage,
When he left Heaven's portal,
And stooped to conquer hellish rage,
In weakness like a mortal.
How he fulfilled in its demands
The Law that we had broken;
How God exacted at his hands
The strongest, clearest token
Of matchless Love, so that He gave
His life's blood for transgression,
And left the confines of the grave
In glorious Resurrection.