As o’er the past my me­mo­ry strays,
Why heaves the sec­ret sigh?
’Tis that I mourn de­part­ed days,
Still un­pre­pared to die.

The world and world­ly things be­loved,
My anx­ious thoughts em­ployed;
And time un­hal­lowed, un­im­proved,
Presents a fear­ful void.

Yet, ho­ly Fa­ther, wild des­pair
Chase from my la­bor­ing breast;
Thy grace it is which prompts the pray­er,
That grace can do the rest.

My life’s brief rem­nant all be Thine;
And when Thy sure de­cree
Bids me this fleet­ing breath re­sign,
O speed my soul to Thee.