Old age, with all its sick­ly train,
Soon makes its dread ap­proach;
Languor, de­bi­li­ty and pain,
Insensibly en­croach.

Life’s gai­eties have charms no more,
Its plea­sures but ap­pall:
The bu­sy scenes and toils are o’er,
The hon­ey turned to gall.

The lu­cid orbs of vi­sion fail,
And give a glim­mer­ing light;
Successive clouds of grief pre­vail,
Transforming day to night.

Associates and friends once dear,
On earth are known no more;
Minds un­con­ge­ni­al now ap­pear,
A race un­known be­fore.

How dark the scene, how full of woe,
Alas for hoa­ry age;
Yet grace will still a balm be­stow,
Their sor­rows to as­suage.

There is a friend who still abides,
More dear than all that’s lost:
And he who in this friend con­fides,
May yet of com­forts boast.

’Tis Je­sus, who will ne’er for­sake,
But make His friends His care;
To Him your griefs and sor­rows take,
And He your griefs will share.

Soon will He bring your wea­ry feet
To His eter­nal rest;
Then shall your joys be all com­plete,
When in His man­sion blessed.