llO BAXTER'& POEMS, Death. Thy flesh I 'll.turn to clay, · And all thy bones to dust; And leave thee in the grave. Make no longer stay, · For come away thou must; It is in vain to crave: Clothed from head to feet, But with a winding-sheet, My prisoner thou shalt be; Bearing my loathsome mark, Thou shalt lie in the dark, And the face of no man see. Believer. Thou shalt but dig the ground, Where God his seed shall sow, And raise it at the spring : And there I shall be found, And Christ his own will know, And unto glory bring: When here I cease to live, ' A better life he '11 give, Which thou shalt not destroy: And though this life thou spill, My soul thou canst not kill, Nor again with fears annoy. When thou putt'st out these eyes, I shall receive my sight: My day will all be noon: Above the spangled skies, Where never shall be night, Nor need of sun or moon:
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