How frail are these bo­dies of clay!
How soon all their vi­gor is lost!
They flour­ish in beau­ty today,
Tomorrow they min­gle in dust.

So flow’rs in the morn­ing may rise,
Unfolding their leaves to the sun;
The breath of each ze­phyr that sighs,
May blast them, and soon they are gone.

Afflictions spring not from the ground,
Diseases our so­ver­eign obey;
His hand, it can heal ev­ery wound,
Or fill us with death and dis­may.

We lie in Thy so­ver­eign con­trol,
O Lord, in this hour of dis­tress;
Physician of bo­dy and soul,
Send down Thy re­co­ver­ing grace.

Oh! speak, and the dear one shall live,
Jehovah, al­migh­ty to save!
Thy voice e’en the dead shall re­vive,
And tri­umph at last o’er the grave.