BANGOR, By Dr. Watts
DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL,
Vital spark of heav'nly flame,|
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame.
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying.
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife.
Let me languish, languish into life.
Hark! they whisper, angels say,
Sister spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath.
Tell me my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes, it disappears.
By Dr. Isaac Watts (1674-1748)
Music by Tans'ur
Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound;
My ears, attend the cry;
"Ye living men, come view the ground
Where you must shortly lie.
"Princes, this clay must be your bed,
In spite of all your towers;
The tall, the wise, the rev'rend head
Must lie as low as ours!"
Great God! is this our certain doom?
And are we still secure?
Still walking downward to our tomb,
And yet prepare no more?
Grant us the powers of quick'ning grace,
To fit our souls to fly,
Then, when we drop this dying flesh,
We'll rise above the sky.
The Dying Christian to His Soul
Words by Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
Royal Albert Memorial Museum, Exeter
Music (1825) by George K. Jackson (1745-1822)
Published Weekly Museum, 14 Sep 1795