The grass, and flow’rs, which clothe the field,

And look so green and gay;

Touched by the scythe, defenseless yield,

And fall, and fade away.

Fit emblem of our mortal state!

Thus in the scripture glass,

The young, the strong, the wise, the great,

May see themselves but grass;

Ah! trust not to your fleeting breath,

Nor call your time your own;

Around you, see, the scythe of death

Is mowing thousands down.

And you, who hitherto are spared,

Must shortly yield your lives;

Your wisdom is to be prepared,

Before the stroke arrives.

The grass, when dead, revives no more,

You die, to live again;

But o! if death should prove the door

To everlasting pain.

Lord, help us to obey thy call,

That from our sins set free

When like the grass our bodies fall,

Our souls may spring to thee.