When to the Margin of the Grave we come,
And scarce have one black painful hour to live.
No hopes, no prospect of a kind Reprieve,
To stop our speedy passage to the Tomb.
How moving, and how mournful is the sight,
How wond'rous pitiful, how wond'rous sad;
Where then is Refuge, where is Comfort to be had,
In the dark Minutes of the dreadful Night,
To chear our drooping Souls for their amazing Flight?
Feeble and languishing in Bed we lie,
Despairing to recover, void of rest,
Wishing for Death, and yet afraid to die:
Terrors and Doubts distract our Breast,
With mighty Agonies, and mighty Pains opprest.