Comes on the death-doomed foe;
His hands are folded on his breast,
And thus he murmurs low:
“‘Though late my penitence, O Lord,
Thy mercies still are sure;
And whether life or death be mine,
My trust shalt rest secure.’
“One rush—one blow—one stifled groan,
And nought but dust is there;
The soul that ever lived in sin