O world, I now must leave thee,
But little doth it grieve me,
I seek my native land;
True life I there inherit,
And here I yield my spirit
With joy to God’s all-gracious hand.

So on His Word relying,
I know, while I am dying
I seen shall see His face,
Through Christ whose death hath bought me;
The Father’s love He brought me,
And now prepares for me a place.

The grave hath lost its terrors,
Since for my sins and errors,
My Savior did atone:
My works can nought avail me,
But His work cannot fail me,
I rest in faith on Him alone.

And so I hence am going
In peace, full surely knowing
That now I shall have rest:
I feel death’s icy finger;
My soul here cannot linger,
Nor would I stay–to go is best.

O world, I yet would teach thee
That death will surely reach thee;
Thou too must follow me;
Then ere God’s grace forsake thee,
Repent! to Christ betake thee,
That God have mercy too on thee.