|How still and peaceful is the grave!|
Where life's vain tumults past,
The appointed house, by heaven's decree
Receives us at the last.
The wicked there from troubling cease;
Their passions rage no more;
And there the weary pilgrim rests
From all the toils he bore.
There servants, masters, small and great,
Partake the same repose;
And there in peace the ashes mix,
Of those who once were foes.
All levelled by the hand of death,
Partake a common tomb;
Yet saints shall not for ever sleep:
Not theirs the sinner's doom.