Few, few and evil are thy days,

Man, of a woman born;

Peril and trouble haunt thy ways;

Forth, like a flower at morn,

The tender infant springs to light,

Youth blossoms to the breeze,

Age, withering age, is cropt ere night;

Man like a shadow flees.

And dost thou look on such an one?

Will God to judgment call

A worm, for what a worm hath done

Against the Lord of all?

As fail the waters from the deep,

As summer-brooks run dry,

Man lieth down in dreamless sleep,

His life is vanity.

Man lieth down, no more to wake,

Till yonder arching sphere

Shall, with a roll of thunder, break,

And nature disappear.

O hide me, till Thy wrath be past,

Thou who canst slay or save!

Hide me, where hope may anchor fast,

In my Redeemer's grave.