O! frail and falling house of clay!
I’ve loved thee far too well;
With thee I have not long to stay,
How long, I cannot tell.
But this I know, thy tott’ring wall
Which now imprisons me,
When touch’d by Death’s cold hand, shall fall;
O! then I shall be free!
And yet, whene’er I part from thee,
Mid nature’s dying pain,
O! let this truth remember’d be,
We part to meet again
As tender rose trees seem to die,
When touch’d by winter’s breath,
And for a little season lie,
With every mark of death;
Then spring to life when summer comes,
And wear their brightest dress,
To beautify our pleasant homes,
Our careworn hearts to bless,
So shalt thou hear the trumpet’s sound,
And leave thy lowly grave,
Whether thou sleepest under ground,
Or ’neath the rolling wave.
Then still I’ll love thee, house of clay!
But not with former pride;
For not until the last great day
Shalt thou be glorified!