Richard Doddridge Blackmore (1825–1900)

IN the hour of death, after this life’s whim,

When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim,

And pain has exhausted every limb—

The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.

When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim,

And the mind can only disgrace its fame,

And a man is uncertain of his own name—

The power of the Lord shall fill this frame.

When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed,

And the coffin is waiting beside the bed,

And the widow and child forsake the dead—

The angel of the Lord shall lift this head.

For even the purest delight may pall,

And power must fail, and the pride must fall,

And the love of the dearest friends grow small—

But the glory of the Lord is all in all.