Lord, Thou hast been Thy people's rest,

Through all their generations;

Their refuge when by troubles prest,

Their hope in tribulations:

Thou, ere the mountains sprang to birth,

Or ever Thou hadst form'd the earth,

Art God from everlasting.

Our life is like the transient breath,

That tells a mournful story;

Early or late, stopt short by death;--

And where is all our glory?

Our days are threescore years and ten,

And if the span be lengthened then,

Their strength is toil and sorrow.

Lo Thou hast set before Thine eyes

All our misdeeds and errors;

Our secret sins from darkness rise

At Thine awakening terrors:

Who shall abide the trying hour?

Who knows the thunder of Thy power?

We flee unto Thy mercy.

Lord, teach us so to mark our days,

That we may prize them duly;

So guide our feet in Wisdom's ways,

That we may love Thee truly:

Return, O Lord! our griefs behold,

And with Thy goodness, as of old,

O satisfy us early.