Wherefore should man, frail child of clay,
Who, from the cra­dle to the shroud,
Lives but the in­sect of a day—
Oh why should mor­tal man be proud?

His bright­est vi­sions just ap­pear,
Then van­ish, and no more are found:
The state­li­est pile his pride can rear,
A breath may le­vel with the ground.

By doubts per­plexed, in er­ror lost,
With trem­bling step he seeks his way:
How vain, of wis­dom’s gift the boast!
Of rea­son’s lamp, how faint the ray!

Follies and crimes, a count­less sum,
Are crowd­ed in life’s lit­tle span:
How ill, alas, does pride be­come
That err­ing, guil­ty crea­ture, man!

God of my life! Fa­ther di­vine!
Give me a meek and low­ly mind:
In mo­dest worth oh let me shine,
And peace in hum­ble vir­tue find.