What timorous worms we mortals are!
Death is the gate of endless joy ;
And yet we dread to enter there.
2 The pains, the groans, the dying strife
Fright our approaching souls away ;
We still shrink back again to life,
Fond of our prison and our clay.
3 Oh, if my Lord would come and meet,
My soul should stretch her wings in haste,
Fly fearless through death's iron gate,
Nor feel the terrors as she passed !
4 Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are ;
While on His breast I lean my head,
And breathe my life out sweetly there.