Oh! seize this hour, for day by day,
Death lies in am­bush for his prey;
Fill it with vir­tu­ous toils and cares—
He spreads around his thou­sand snares.

He lurks in sum­mer’s sick­ly breath,
The win­ter winds are winged with death,
And au­tumn, in her mel­low stores,
Disease amidst her rich­es show­ers.

But thou, in ev­ery sea­son brave,
Walk calm­ly o’er that hid­den grave,
For Chris­tian du­ties, aims di­vine,
To thee make ev­ery sea­son shine.

The sum­mer’s sickl­y air may bring
Disease and suf­fer­ing on its wing,
But ho­ly pa­tience waits on thee,
To sweet­ly soothe thy mi­se­ry.

Should pes­ti­lence, in au­tumn’s shade,
Sudden thy bloom­ing health in­vade,
Unshrinking thou that dart shalt bear,
For God Him­self is with thee there.

And should the win­ter’s fierc­er hour
The burst­ing tem­pest on thee show­er,
Amidst that ele­ment­al strife,
Calm shalt thou view eter­nal life.

The Chris­tian heart shall know not fear,
Though death in ev­ery shape ap­pear;
Amid the waves’ most aw­ful form,
It sees a Fa­ther in the storm!