Classic Poem

of death.

Though this be true death is acurs
And still a dreadfull thing
To one, that is not yet in Christ
It doth much horour bring.

Yet thou'lt not be att death agast
Not scar'd at itts pale face
If springled with the bloud of Christ
It will seem full of grace.

Death, is the Gate of hapy nese
To let thee, into glory
From pain, it gives a writ of ease
And from, the worlds, vain hurry.

Whilst on the banks of time, I bide
Comes death the ferry boat
To cary me o're to the other side
Where Christ, has paid the shot.

Death to my body is a sleep
When in the grave I'me lain
And thou it may be long, & deep
I shall awake again

Death is a hapy mesenger
Sent from my fathers court
To fecth, to'th presence Chamber
Where angells, doe resort.

Christ rode in triumph over death
Att his ascension
Though for a while, tis left on earth
Yet his, shall tread it down.

The grave is now become thy bed
Of queit ease, & rest
Christ has perfum'd it with his head
Three days it was his nest.

And ever since, it smels as sweet
As it of spice t'were made
Thou needst not fear, to put thy feet
Into this fragrent bed.

Tis their, the weary att ar rest
Nothing doth them disturb
The wicked their, cease to molest
Or by their pow'r curb.

Oh death, I must, and will stile thee
Next to Christ, my best freind
Him thou shalt let, me in to see
puting to sin an end.

Death now can neither bite, nor sting
Thou mayst look round about
The sting of death, is only sin
And that Christ has took out.

Death, is a raging enemy
But to thee, us the last
itts pous'nous malignity
throu Christ is gone, & past.

Thou mayst now look death in the face
And bid him, do his worst
Hee can now, only thorow grace
Thy bonds, asunder burst.

Come then, my soull, sit down, & sing
Upon the grave, thy bed
Oh death, where is thy cursed sting
I shall arise when dead.