When blooming youth is snatched away, By death’s resistless hand, Our hearts the mournful tribute pay, Which pity must demand. While pity prompts the rising sigh, O may this truth, impressed With awful power—I too must die— Sink deep in every breast. Let this vain world engage no more; Behold the gaping tomb! It bids us seize the present hour, Tomorrow, death may come. The voice of this alarming scene, May every heart obey, Nor be the heav’nly warning vain, Which calls to watch and pray. O let us fly, to Jesus fly, Whose powerful arm can save; Then shall our hopes ascend on high, And triumph o’er the grave. Great God, Thy sovereign grace impart, With cleansing, healing power; This only can prepare the heart, For death’s surprising hour.