Let sickness blast, and death devour,If heaven must recompense our painsPerish the grass, and fade the flower,If firm the word of God remains.
Beneath, a sleeping infant lies,To earth whose ashes lent,More glorious shall hereafter rise,Though not more innocent.When the arch-angel's trump shall blow,And souls and bodies join,What crowds will wish, their lives belowHad been as short as thine!