And, dying, bless the hand that gave the blow.
He was exhaled; his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers.
Time and death shall depart and say in flying Love has found out a way to live, by dying.
But dying is a pleasure / When living is a pain.
Dying bless the hand that gave the blow.