Fright our approaching souls away;
Still we shrink back again to life,
Fond of our prison and our clay.
3 O if my Lord would come and meet,
My soul would stretch her wings in haste,
Fly fearless through death’s iron gate,
Nor feel the terrors as she passed!
4 Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are,
While on his breast I lean my head,