How swift the tor­rent rolls
That bears to us to the sea!
The tide, that bears our thought­less souls
To vast eter­ni­ty!

Our fa­thers, where are they,
With all they called their own?
Their joys and griefs, and hopes and cares,
And wealth and hon­or gone.

But joy or grief suc­ceeds
Beyond our mor­tal thought;
While the poor rem­nant of their dust
Lies in the grave for­got.

There, where the fa­thers lie,
Must all the child­ren dwell;
Nor other her­itage pos­sess,
But such a gloomy cell.

God of our fa­thers, hear,
Thou ev­er­last­ing Friend!
While we, as on life’s ut­most verge,
Our souls to Thee com­mend.

Of all the pious dead
May we the foot­steps trace,
Till with them in the land of light,
We dwell be­fore Thy face.