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 Fear'st thou the death that comes to all,

And knows no interceder?—

O glorious struggle!—thou wilt fall,

The soldier by the Leader!

went with death to grapple first,

And vanquished him before thee:

His darts then, let him do his worst,

Can win no triumph o'er thee!

And, if thy conscience brands each sense

With many a past defilement,

Here, by the fruits of penitence,

Hope thou for reconcilement!

For He, Who bowed His holy Head,

In death serenely sleeping,

Hath grace on contrite hearts to shed,

And pardon for the weeping! Amen.