The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.@Psalm 90:10
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Isaac Watts (1674-1748)

Isaac Watts, The Psalms of David 1719.

Yattendon 46 Harry E. Wooldridge, 1899 (🔊 pdf nwc).

Lord, what a feeble piece
Is this our mortal frame!
Our life how poor a trifle ’tis,
That scarce deserves the name!

Alas, the brittle clay
That built our body first!
And every month, and every day,
’Tis moldering back to dust.

Our moments fly apace,
Nor will our minutes stay;
Just like a flood, our hasty days
Are sweeping us away.

Well, if our days must fly,
We’ll keep their end in sight;
We’ll spend them all in wisdom’s way,
And let them speed their flight.

They’ll waft us sooner o’er
This life’s tempestuous sea;
Soon we shall reach the peaceful shore
Of blessed eternity.