1.

Lord, what a feeble piece

Is this our mortal frame!

Our life, how poor a trifle 'tis,

That scarce deserves the name!

2.

Alas! 'twas brittle clay

That built our body first!

And every month and every day

'Tis mouldering back to dust.

3.

Our moments fly apace,

Our feeble powers decay;

Swift as a flood our hasty days

Are sweeping us away.

4.

Yet if our days must fly,

We'll keep their end in sight,

We'll spend them all in wisdom's ways,

And let them speed their flight.

5.

They'll waft us sooner o'er

This life's tempestuous sea:

Soon shall we reach the peaceful shore,

Of blest eternity.