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 a 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.