My barns are full, my stores in­crease,
And now, for ma­ny years,
Soul, eat and drink, and take thine ease,
Secure from wants and fears.

Thus while a world­ling boast­ed once,
As ma­ny now pre­sume;
He heard the Lord Him­self pro­nounce
His sud­den, aw­ful doom.

This night, vain fool, thy soul must pass
Into a world un­known;
And who shall then the stores pos­sess
Which thou hast called thine own?

Thus blind­ed mor­tals fond­ly scheme
For hap­pi­ness below;
Till death dis­turbs the pleas­ing dream,
And they awake to woe.

Ah! who can speak the vast dis­may
That fills the sin­ner’s mind;
When torn, by death’s strong hand, away,
He leaves his all be­hind.

Wretches, who cleave to earth­ly things,
But are not rich to God;
Their dy­ing hour is full of stings,
And hell their dark abode.

Dear Sav­ior, make us time­ly wise,
Thy Gos­pel to at­tend;
That we may live above the skies,
When this poor life shall end.