Behold the sun, that seemed but now
Enthronèd ov­er­head,
Beginneth to de­cline be­low
The globe here­on we tread;
And he, whom yet ye look up­on
With com­fort and de­light,
Will quite de­part from hence anon,
And leave us to the night.

Thus time, un­heed­ed, steals away
The life which na­ture gave;
Thus are our bo­dies ev­ery day
Declining to the grave;
Thus from us all our plea­sures fly
Whereon we set our heart;
And when the night of death draws nigh,
Thus will they all de­part.

Lord! though the sun for­sake our sight,
And mor­tal hopes are vain,
Let still Thine ev­er­last­ing light
Within our souls re­main;
And in the nights of our dis­tress
Vouchsafe those rays di­vine
Which from the Sun of Right­eous­ness
For ev­er bright­ly shine.