So fades the lovely, blooming flower,

Frail, smiling solace of an hour;

So soon our transient comforts fly,

And pleasure only blooms to die.

2 Is there no kind, no healing art,

To soothe the anguish of the heart?

Spirit of grace, be ever nigh;

Thy comforts are not made to die.

3 Let gentle patience smile on pain,

Till dying hope revives again;

Hope wipes the tear from sorrow’s eye,

And faith points upward to the sky.