Old-Line Primitive Baptist Hymn and Tune Book

697 (C.M.) Isaac Watts

How long shall death, the tyrant, reign

And triumph o'er the just,

While the rich blood of martyrs slain

Lies mingled with the dust?

Lo! I behold the scattered shades!

The dawn of heav'n appears;

The sweet, immortal morning spreads

Its blushes 'round the spheres,

I hear the voice, "Ye dead, arise!"

And lo! the graves obey;

And waking saints with joyful eyes

Salute th'expected day.

Oh, may our humble spirits stand

Among them, clothed in white!

The meanest place at His right hand

Is infinite delight.