Think, O think often upon death, your own death; O that you were wise to consider your latter end; amongst all your thoughts, spend some upon your dying day, set a death's head before your eyes, and think to this purpose: Oh what a dying, fading creature am I! I dwell in a tottering tabernacle, in a house of clay, that is ready to be crushed every moment like a moth; this vile body of mine is made of perishing ingredients, and my life is like a vapour. O my soul, thou lodgest in a brittle case, how certainly shall, how suddenly may it be broken! and then thou launchest forth into the vast ocean of eternity; death will shortly loose the knot betwixt these old companions, soul and body—nature abhors a dissolution, but what saith grace? is the sting of death plucked out by the death of Christ? hath the Lord of life warmed and perfumed the grave for thee?

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