1 Death as a sleep or gentle dos,
Does every weary saint compose
Lays all its pain, and griefs remove,
Conveys the Soul to worlds above.

2 Where all its sigs and mournful cries,
With pained heart; and flowing eyes,
Are chang'd for pleasures lasting sweet
Nor can it more with sorrow meet.

3 Blest in the lamb's embrace it lies,
Praising its God above the sies;
In sparkling robes of glory bright,
Transporting joys and pure delight.

4 Thus with the growing concert join,
And seraphs in musick divine
'Tis rapture almost ravishing,
To hear the charming notes they sing.

5 Nor can those joys sublime be less,
They'r flowing streams of perfect bliss
Yet parents and relations dear,
Are loth their loving friend to spare.