1 My God! my God! and must I die,
Thy presence to behold;
Lord break the bands, and let me fly,
To tread the streets of gold.

2 Learn me to dwell on things above,
And sing as saints do there;
Those brightest objects of thy love,
And quickly me prepare.

3 To drop the body, and remove,
To yonder worlds on hight;
Fain on thy wing celestial dove,
My soul would thither fly,

4 Yet trembling at each swelling wave,
Of death's cold flood I stand;
Afraid to launch in them and leave,
This body and this land.

5 But if my Jesus I could hear,
And see him standing by;
My soul would mount beyond her fear,
Thro' death for Heaven fly.