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On the death of a Believer.

1
In vain my fancy strives to paint
The moment after death;
The glories that surround the saints,
When yielding up their breath.

2
One gentle sigh their fetter breaks,
We scarce can say, "They're gone"!
Before the willing spirit takes
Her mansion near the throne.

3
Faith strives, but all its efforts fail,
To trace her in her flight;
No eye can peirce within the veil
Which hides that world of light:

4
Thus much, (and this is all) we know,
They are completely blest;
Have done with sin, and care, and woe,
And with their Saviour rest.

5
On harps of Gold they praise his name,
His face they always view;
Then let us follow'rs be of them,
That we may praise him too.

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