That tongue of death! that herald of the tomb!
And when (the shelter of Thy wing implored)
My senses, soothed, shall sink in soft repose,
Oh, sink this truth still deeper in my soul,
Suggested by my pillow, sign’d by fate,
First, in Fate’s volume, at the page of man—
Man’s sickly soul, though turn’d and toss’d for ever,
From side to side, can rest on nought but Thee:
Here, in full trust, hereafter, in full joy;
On Thee, the promised, sure, eternal down 2340