Classic Poem

I cant but pationetly long
for that most wellcome day
When I shall sing this blessed song
and shall triumphing say.
Oh death where is thy victory
oh grave, where is thy sting
Thou hast made me, compleatly
A victor, through my king.

And that not only over death
but over sin, and hell
Which frequently, prevaileth
O'r'e me whilst here I dwell.