1 And must this body die?
This well-wrought frame decay?
And must these active limbs of mine
Lie moldering in the clay?

2 Christ, my Redeemer, lives,
And ever from the skies
Looks down, and watches all my dust
Till he shall bid it rise.

3 Arrayed in glorious grace
Shall these vile bodies shine,
And every form and every face
Look heavenly and divine?

4 O Lord, accept the praise
Of these our humble songs,
Till tunes of nobler sound we raise
With our immortal tongues.