Prepare for the trouble that soon is to come—
Who then will enjoy his own loved quiet home?
I die in the Lord, from my labors to rest
With the dead, of whom it is said, “They are blest.”
For me bid farewell to the loved and the true,
May we meet where is heard no mournful adieu.
My mother, I’m dying, but Jesus is here;
With him I have nothing of evil to fear.
Thus peaceful she died, but still lingered the trace
Of the image divine on her cold pallid face.