The swift-de­clin­ing day,
How fast its mo­ments fly!
While ev­en­ing’s broad and gloomy shade
Gains on the west­ern sky.

Ye mortals, mark its pace,
And use the hours of light;
And know, its Mak­er can com­mand
An in­stan­tan­eous night.

His Word blots out the sun
In its me­ri­di­an blaze;
And cuts from smil­ing, vig­or­ous youth
The rem­nant of its days.

On the dark mountain’s brow
Your feet shall quick­ly slide;
And from its airy sum­mit dash
Your mo­ment­ary pride.

Give glo­ry to the Lord,
Who rules the whirl­ing sphere;
Submissive at His foot­stool bow,
And seek sal­va­tion there.

Then shall new lus­ter break
Thro’ hor­ror’s dark­est gloom,
And lead you to un­chang­ing light,
In a ce­les­tial home.