Thankless for fa­vors from on high,
Man thinks he fades too soon:
Though ’tis his pri­vi­lege to die,
Would he im­prove the boon.

But he, not wise enough to scan
His best con­cerns aright,
Would glad­ly stretch life’s lit­tle span
To ag­es, if he might.

To ag­es in a world of pain,
To ages, where he goes
Galled by af­flict­ion’s hea­vy chain,
And hope­less of re­pose.

Strange fond­ness of the hu­man heart,
Enamored of its harm!
Strange world, that costs it so much smart,
And still has pow­er to charm.

Whence has the world her ma­gic pow­er?
Why deem we death a foe?
Recoil from wea­ry life’s last hour,
And co­vet long­er woe?

The cause is con­science: con­science oft
Her tale of guilt re­news;
Her voice is ter­ri­ble, though soft,
And dread of death en­sues.

Then, an­xious to be long­er spared,
Man mourns his fleet­ing breath;
All ev­ils then seem light com­pared
With the ap­proach of death.

’Tis judg­ment shakes him: there’s the fear
That prompts his wish to stay;
He has in­curred a long ar­rear,
And must des­pair to pay.

Pay! Follow Christ, and all is paid:
His death your peace en­sures;
Think on the grave where He was laid,
And calm des­cend to yours.