1 My Soul, come meditate the Day,
And think how near it stands,
When thou must quit this House of Clay,
And fly to unknown Lands.

[2 And you, mine Eyes, look down, and view
The hollow, gaping Tomb,
This gloomy Prison waits for you,
Whene'er the Summons come.]

3 Oh! could we die with those that die,
And place us in their Stead,
Then would our Spirits learn to fly,
And converse with the Dead.

4 Then should we see the Saints above,
In their own glorious Forms,
And wonder why our Souls should love
To dwell with mortal Worms.

[5 How should we scorn these Clothes of Flesh,
These Fetters, and this Load!
And long for Ev'ning to undress,
That we may rest with God.]

6 We should almost forsake our Clay
Before the Summons come,
And pray, and wish our Souls away
To their eternal Home.