IV.
The grave—that dreary place,
Christian, the lonely dwelling in the dust
Awaits thee; 'tis the doom of all thy race,—
Where, then, shall be thy trust?
God is my refuge! Sweet will be my rest
On the dear pillow that my Saviour pressed!
The grave—that dreary place,
Christian, the lonely dwelling in the dust
Awaits thee; 'tis the doom of all thy race,—
Where, then, shall be thy trust?
God is my refuge! Sweet will be my rest
On the dear pillow that my Saviour pressed!