By Fynn Titford-Mock
- A minor
- Folk hymn
- Time signature
- Anne Steele, unknown
When blooming youth is snatched away
By death's resistless hand,
Our hearts the mournful tribute pay
Which pity must demand.
Let this vain world engage no more;
Behold the gaping tomb;
It bids us seize the present hour,
Tomorrow death may come.
O let us fly! to Jesus fly,
Whose pow'rful arm can save;
Then shall our hopes ascend on high,
And triumph o'er the grave.
Great God, thy sov'reign grace impart,
With cleansing, healing pow'r;
This only can prepare the heart
For death's surprising hour.