Stretched on the Bed of Grief

Stretched on the bed of grief

In si­lence long I lay;

For sore dis­ease and wast­ing pain

Had worn my strength away.

Just o’er the grave I hung;

No par­don met my eyes;

As bless­ings nev­er greet the slain

And hope shall nev­er rise.

Sweet mer­cy to my soul

Revealed no charm­ing ray;

Before me rose a long

dark night

With no suc­ceed­ing day.

I saw be­yond the tomb

The aw­ful Judge ap­pear

Prepared to scan with strict ac­count

My bless­ings wast­ed here.

Then O how vain ap­peared

The joys be­neath the sky!

Like vi­sions past

like flow­ers that blow

When win­try storms are nigh.

How mourned my sink­ing soul

The Sab­bath’s hours di­vine

The day of grace

that pre­cious day;

Consumed in sense and sin.

Then to the Lord I prayed

And raised a bit­ter cry—

Hear me

O God

and save my soul

Lest I for­ev­er die.

He heard my hum­ble cry;

He saved my soul from death;

To Him I’ll give my heart and hands

And con­se­crate my breath.

Ye sin­ners

fear the Lord

While yet ’tis called to­day:

Soon will the aw­ful voice of death

Command your souls away.

Soon will the har­vest close;

The sum­mer soon be o’er;

And soon your in­jured

ang­ry God

Will hear your pray­ers no more.