The world is grown old, and her plea­sures are past;
The world is grown old, and her form may not last;
The world is grown old, and trem­bles for fear;
For sor­rows abound, and judg­ment is near!

The sun in the hea­ven is lang­uid and pale,
And fee­ble and few are the fruits of the vale;
The hearts of the na­tions all fail them for fear,
The world is grown old, and judg­ment is near!

The king on his throne, the bride in her bow­er,
The children of plea­sure all feel the sad hour;
The ros­es are fad­ed, and taste­less the cheer,
The world is grown old, and judg­ment is near!

The world is grown old, but should we com­plain?
We tried her and know that her pro­mis­es are vain.
Our heart is in Hea­ven, our home is not here:
We look for our crown when judg­ment is near!