3 'Tis God that lifts our comforts high,
Or sinks them in the grave;
He gives, and (blessed be his name!)
He takes but what he gave.

4 Peace, all our angry passions, then,
Let each rebellious sigh
Be silent at his sov'reign will,
And every murmur die.

5 If smiling mercy crown our lives,
Its praises shall be spread;
And we'll adore the justice too
That strikes our comforts dead.


Hymn 1:6.
Triumph over death, Job 19. 25-27.

1 Great God, I own thy sentence just
And nature must decay;
I yield my body to the dust
To dwell with fellow-clay.

2 Yet faith may triumph o'er the grave,
And trample on the tombs:
My Jesus, my Redeemer lives,
My God, my Saviour comes.

3 The mighty Conqueror shall appear