Death, thou was once an uncouth hideous thing,
Nothing but bones,
The sad effect of sadder grones,
Thy mouth was open, but thou could not sing

For we considered thee as at some six
Or ten years hence,
After the loss of life and sense,
Flesh being turned to dust, and bones to sticks

We looked on this side of thee, shooting short;
Where we did find
The shells of fledge souls left behind
Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may extort

But since our saviors death did put some blood
Into thy face;
Thou art grown fair and full of grace,
Much in request, much sought for as a good

For we do now behold thee gay and glad,
As at dooms day;
When souls shall wear their new array,
And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad

Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust
Half that we have
Unto an honest faithful grave;
Making our pillows either down, or dust.