Poetry
OUR days begin with trouble here,
Our life is but a span;
And cruel death is always near;
So frail a thing is man!
Believe in Jesus Christ while young
Then when thou com'st to die,
Thou shalt sing forth that pleasant song,
"Death, where's thy victory?"
IN the burying place may see
Graves shorter there than I;
From death's arrest no age is free,
Young children too may die,
My God, may such an awful sight
Awakening be to me!
O! that by early grace I might
For death prepared be.
HAVE communion with few,
Be intimate with ONE;
Deal justly with all,
Speak evil of none.
Notes
The authors of the above poems are unknown.
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