Remark, my soul, the nar­row bounds
Of the re­volv­ing year!
How swift the weeks com­plete their rounds,
How short the months ap­pear!

So fast eter­ni­ty comes on,
And that im­port­ant day,
When all that mor­tal life has done
God’s judg­ment shall sur­vey.

Yet like an idle tale we pass
The swift ad­vanc­ing year;
And stu­dy art­ful ways t’in­crease
The speed of its ca­reer.

Waken, O God, my trif­ling heart
Its great con­cern to see;
That I may act the Chris­tian part,
And give the year to Thee.

So shall their course more grate­ful roll,
If fu­ture years arise;
Or this shall bear my smil­ing soul
To joy that ne­ver dies.