A voice from the grave.
HARK! from the tombs a doleful sound,
My ears, attend the cry :—
Ye living men, come view the ground
Where you must shortly lie.
2 Princes, this clay must be your bed,
In spite of all your towers;
The tall, the wise, the reverend head,
Shall lie as low as ours.
3 Great God! is this our certain doom,
And are we still secure?
Still walking downward to the tomb,
And yet prepared no more?
4 Grant us the power of quick’ning grace,
To ﬁt our souls to ﬂy ;
Then, when we drop this dying ﬂesh,
We’ll rise above the sky.
Methodist Episcopal hymnal (1870 edition)