A Short Dissertation Against Poem by Rees Prichard

Alas! that man did thoroughly but know,
What gifts from Death unto the godly flow!
He ne'er wou'd dread his presence, but rejoice,
And for his coming cry with earnest voice!

Death puts an end to all this motley scene,
Our miseries, and ev'ry act unclean,
And steers the saints, through a tempestuous sea,
Unto the haven, where they wish to be.

Death, after all our troubles makes our beds,
That we thereon may lay our weary'd heads,
And gives us ease and happiness at last,
When all our straits and grievances are past.

Death buries all our errors in the grave,
Ev'ry disorder, ev'ry pain we have,
So that no sort of error, or disease,
Shall any more our minds and bodies seize.

Death often takes the pious soul away,
Lest he shou'd live until the fatal day,
When woes shall overwhelm his native place,
And dire calamities attack his race.

Death snatches off the simple, from among
The dang'rous converse of the sinful throng,
Lest they to vice shou'd prompt, and spur them on,
To do the things they ought not to have done.

Death will the righteous of the rags divest -
The filthy rags, wherein they here were drest,
And clothe them in a vesture loose and gay,
Salvation's robes, and ever-bright array!

Death sets at liberty the joyous soul
From a close dungeon, dreary, dark, and foul,
That it may see the Godhead's glorious light,
And worship him, in holiness, aright.

Death does the soul of man at once unbind
From the vile clay, to which it here is join'd,
And in a moment does to Christ unite,
Her lovely consort in the realms of light.

Death does the just to the bright seats above,
Amongst the angels of the Lord remove,
From this old house, whose shatter'd roof we dread,
Lest it shou'd fall each moment on our head.

Death leads them out of Sodom's fatal plain,
To the hill country, from the fi'ry rain,
And brings the pious (from all terrors free)
From Egypt, to the land of liberty.

Death, from this world the souls of men conveys,
That round their brows with ever-beaming rays
The crown may shine, which, thro' much pain and woe,
Christ brought for all, who serve him well below.

The good, from all their troubles, he relieves,
Their num'rous woes, and miserable lives,
To joy and glory points the certain road,
Where real pleasure makes her fix'd abode.

What Christian then shou'd be of Death afraid,
Who lends to man so readily his aid,
Who bears him safe through trouble's thorny ways,
And to the palace of his God conveys?

Let thou the Pagan, to each virtue dead,
Let thou the Turk, grim Death's approaches dread:
But let not the true Christian be in pain
To pass through Death, a glorious crown to gain.

A day of pardon, and of jubilee,
A day, that from all sorrow sets us free,
A day, that from those prison-cells beneath
Unchains our souls, is this same day of Death.

The day of Death, (we shou'd that reason mind)
Is that, whereon we are to Jesus join'd:
We therefore, on it, shou'd be blithe and gay ;
It is our feast, our coronation-day.

It is the day, that ends our mortal race,
The day, that takes us from this woe-fraught place,
The day, that fully pays us all our hire,
The day, that finishes our whole career.

The day, that brings us to the bright abode
Of our Redeemer, the belov'd of God,
And clothes each Christian in his best array,
His robes and crown - such is the happy day!