Old-Line Primitive Baptist Hymn and Tune Book

675 (8.8.8.8.) Charles Wesley

Ah! lovely appearance of death!

What sight upon earth is so fair?

Not all the gay pageants that breathe,

Can with a dead body compare.

With solemn delight I survey

The corpse, when the spirit is fled,

In love with the beautiful clay,

And longing to lie in its stead.

How blest is our brother, bereft

Of all that could burden his mind?

How easy the soul, that hath left

This wearisome body behind!

This languishing head is at rest,

Its thinking and aching are o'er;

This quiet immoveable breast

Is heaved by affliction no more.

This heart is no longer the seat

Of trouble and torturing pain;

It ceases to flutter and beat,

It never shall flutter again.

The lids he so seldom could close,

By sorrow forbidden to sleep,

Sealed up in eternal repose,

Have strangely forgotten to weep.

The fountains can yield no supplies;

These hollows from waters are free;

The tears are all wiped from his eyes,

And evil they never shall see.

What now with my tears I bedew,

Oh, might I this moment become,

My spirit created anew,

My flesh be consigned to the tomb.