From its ruthless grasp',

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It is appointed, by the irrevocable decree of heaven—that 
all men must die. There is no discharge in that war, no 
release from that mortal struggle. Wealth has no bribe 
which death will receive; wisdom has no art by which it 
can be avoided; power has no defence, and even religion 
has no security from its stroke. Beauty has no charm to 
its eye; the voice of eloquence is lost to its ear. Here the 
mightiest conqueror is vanquished, and the proudest of 
monarchs finds himself a slave. From its ruthless grasp
—no age, no condition can escape. Those who are in the 
bloom and freshness of youth cannot, for "man, at his best 
estate, is altogether vanity." The great and prosperous 
cannot, for "the rich man also died and was buried." The 
wicked cannot; he is driven, yes, dragged away in his 
wickedness; the most fearful of all deaths is his—that of 
dying in his sins. Neither can the righteous escape; he 
must go the way of all the earth, and become a tenant 
of the silent grave.

But, at that solemn season, it shall be well with him. When 
the last sands of the numbered hour will be running out; 
when his earthly friends will be compelled to leave him; 
when the cold dews of death will be standing in large drops 
upon his pallid brow; when every nerve and vein may be 
racked and wrenched in fearful agonies by the irresistible 
power of the grim tyrant; even then it shall be well with 
him. The dying strife will soon be over, and through death's 
gloomy portals—he will enter upon that blessed state where 
all is peace and assurance forever!