Thou art gone to the grave; but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb:

O blest were the accents of early creation,
When the Word of Jehovah came down from above:

The feeble pulse, the gasping breath,
The clenched teeth, the glazed eye,

Room for the proud!  Ye sons of clay,
From far his sweepin pomp survey,