Текст песни Хор Московского Сретенского монастыря - Глас 8-й

I weep and sob, always thinking of death, and I see our beauty, created in the image of God, lying in the image of God, ugly, without glory, without appearance in the grave. About a miracle! That this is a sacrament about us; how we savor corruption; how death is conjugated; verily, by command of God, as it is written there is, giving rest to the departed.