Isaac Watts · 569 of 724

Hymn 61

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.

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

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:

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

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

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