Think, migh­ty God, on fee­ble man;
How few his hours! how short his span!
Short from the cra­dle to the grave:
Who can se­cure his vi­tal breath
Against the bold de­mands of death,
With skill to fly, or pow­er to save?

Lord, shall it be for ev­er said,
The race of man was on­ly made
For sick­ness, sor­row, and the dust?
Are not Thy ser­vants day by day
Sent to their graves, and turned to clay?
Lord, where’s Thy kind­ness to the just?

Hast Thou not pro­mised to Thy Son
And all His seed a heav’n­ly crown?
But flesh and sense in­dulge des­pair:
For ever bless­èd be the Lord,
That faith can read His ho­ly Word,
And find a re­sur­rect­ion there.

For ever bless­èd be the Lord,
Who gives His saints a long re­ward
For all their toil, re­proach, and pain:
Let all be­low and all above
Join to pro­claim Thy won­drous love,
And each re­peat their loud Amen.