No, I shall en­vy them no more,
Who grow pro­fane­ly great,
Though they in­crease their gold­en store,
And rise to won­drous height.

They taste of all the joys that grow
Upon this earth­ly clod!
Well, they may search the crea­ture through,
For they have ne’er a God.

Shake off the thoughts of dy­ing too,
And think your life your own;
But death comes hast­en­ing on to you,
To mow your glo­ry down.

Yes, you must bow your state­ly head,
Away your spi­rit flies,
And no kind an­gel near your bed,
To bear it to the skies.

Go now, and boast of all your stores,
And tell how bright you shine;
Your heaps of glit­ter­ing dust are yours,
And my Re­deem­er’s mine.