In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
Satan trembles when he sees the weakest saint upon their knees.
Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head