Oh Savior of the Faithful Dead

Oh Sav­ior of the faith­ful dead

With whom Thy serv­ants dwell

Though cold and green the turf is spread

Above their nar­row cell—

No more we cling to mor­tal clay

We doubt and fear no more.

Nor shrink to tread the dark­some way

Which Thou hast trod be­fore!

’Twas hard from those I loved to go

Who knelt around my bed

Whose tears be­dewed my burn­ing brow

Whose arms up­held my head!

As

fad­ing from my diz­zy view

I sought their forms in vain;

The bit­ter­ness of death I knew

And groaned to live again.

’Twas dread­ful when th’Ac­cus­er’s pow­er

Assailed my sink­ing heart

Recounting ev­ery wast­ed hour

And each un­wor­thy part:

But

Je­sus! in that mor­tal fray

Thy bless­èd com­fort stole

Like sun­shine in a stor­my day

Across my dark­ened soul!

When soon or late

this fee­ble breath

No more to Thee shall pray

Support me through the vale of death

And in the dark­some way!

When clothed in flesh­ly weeds again

I wait Thy dread de­cree;

Judge of the world! be­think Thee then

That Thou hast died for me.