1 My soul, come meditate the day,
And think how near it stands,
When thou must quit this house of clay,
And fly to unknown lands.

2 [And you, mine eyes, look down and view
The hollow gaping tomb,
This gloomy prison waits for you
Whene'er the summons come.]

3 O could we die with those that die,
And place us in their stead,
Then would our spirits learn to fly,
And converse with the dead:

4 Then should we see the saints above
In their own glorious forms,
And wonder why our souls should love
To dwell with mortal worms.

5 [How we should scorn these clothes of flesh,
These fetters and this load!
And long for evening to undress,
That we may rest with God.]

6 We should almost forsake our clay
Before the summons come,
And pray, and wish our souls away
To their eternal home.