Time, with an un­we­aried hand,
Pushes round the sea­sons past,
And in life’s frail glass, the sand
Sinks apace, not long to last:
Many, well as you or I,
Who last year as­sem­bled thus;
In their si­lent graves now lie,
Graves will op­en soon for us!

Daily sin, and care, and strife,
While the Lord pro­longs our breath,
Make it but a dy­ing life,
Or a kind of liv­ing death:
Wretched they, and most for­lorn,
Who no bet­ter por­tion know;
Better ne’er to have been born,
Than to have our all be­low.

When con­strained to go alone,
Leaving all you love be­hind;
Entering on a world un­known,
What will then sup­port your mind?
When the Lord His sum­mons sends,
Earthly com­forts lose their pow­er;
Honors, rich­es, kin­dred, friends,
Cannot cheer a dy­ing hour.

Happy souls who fear the Lord!
Time is not too swift for you;
When your Sav­ior gives the word,
Glad you’ll bid the world adieu:
Then He’ll wipe away your tears,
Near Him­self ap­point your place;
Swifter fly, ye roll­ing years,
Lord, we long to see Thy face.