My Lord will raise me from the dead,—
Give me a harp and bid me sing.
Behold this lovely, youthful saint,
In raptures close his dying eyes;
He yields to death without complaint,
And soars triumphant to the skies.
Voracious grave! thou ne'er wast cloy'd!
Thy constant cry has been for more,
Since Abel, thy first victim, died;
Yet thou art eager as before.