Verse 1
Why should my tears for ever flow,
Why should I wail the close of woe,
The end of misery?
His real life doth still remain,
Nothing is dead but grief and pain,
But that which wish’d to die.

Verse 2
My HUTCHINSON himself survives;
He lives, to God he greatly lives!
Th’ imperishable part
Is rapt beyond our world of care;
Yet now by faithful love I bear
His image on my heart.

Verse 3
I see the generous friend sincere!
His voice still vibrates in my ear,
The voice of truth and love!
It calls me to put off my clay,
It bids me soar with him away
To fairer worlds above.

Verse 4
Not ev’n in death his friendship dies:
With grateful pity and surprize
I ask, How can it be?
Loosen’d from all he leaves behind,
Yet still—unutterably kind—
Yet still—he cleaves to me.

Verse 5
On me he rests his dying head,
And catching grasps a broken reed,
But will not let me part,
Till Jesus visits him again,
By nobler love dissolves the chain,
And vindicates his heart.

Verse 6
Soon as the heavenly guest arrives,
No more he fondly pants and strives
T’ intwist his soul with mine:
He shakes me off—and then his clay,
He gives me up—and dies away
Into the arms divine.

Verse 7
Departed hence in perfect peace,
He loves me now without excess,
Or passionate alloy;
Serene, he waits my spirit’s flight,
To range with his the plains of light,
And climb the mount of joy.

Verse 8
Repos’d in those Elysian seats,
Where Jonathan his David meets,
Our souls shall soon embrace,
The utmost power of friendship prove,
Commenc’d on earth, matur’d above,
In extasies of praise.

Verse 9
How shall we sing and triumph there,
Our dangers and escapes compare,
Our days of flesh and woe!
How comprehend the plan divine,
And sweetly in his praises join
Thro’ whom we met below.

Verse 10
Thro’ whom in paradise we meet,
Great author of our joy compleat,
Thee, Jesus, we proclaim,
While all the saints stand list’ning round,
And all the realms of bliss resound
Salvation to the Lamb.

Verse 11
The Lamb hath brought us thro’ the fire,
The Lamb shall raise our raptures higher,
When all from earth are driven,
Our glorious head shall cleave the skies,
And bid his church triumphant rise
From paradise to heaven.

[1] Wesley changed “rapt” to “wrapt” in 1769.