Through ev­ery age, eter­nal God,
Thou art our rest, our safe abode;
High was Thy throne ere Heav’n was made,
Or earth Thy hum­ble foot­stool laid.

Long hadst Thou reigned ere time be­gan,
Or dust was fa­shioned to a man;
And long Thy king­dom shall en­dure
When earth and time shall be no more.

But man, weak man, is born to die,
Made up of guilt and va­ni­ty;
Thy dread­ful sen­tence, Lord, was just,
Return, ye sin­ners, to your dust.

A thou­sand of our years amount
Scarce to a day in Thine ac­count;
Like yes­ter­day’s de­part­ed light,
Or the last watch of end­ing night.

Death, like an ov­er­flow­ing stream,
Sweeps us away; our life’s a dream,
An emp­ty tale, a morn­ing flow­er,
Cut down and wi­thered in an hour.

Our age to se­ven­ty years is set;
How short the time! how frail the state!
And if to eigh­ty we ar­rive,
We ra­ther sigh and groan than live.

But O how oft Thy wrath ap­pears,
And cuts off our ex­pect­ed years!
Thy wrath awakes our hum­ble dread;
We fear the pow­er that strikes us dead.

Teach us, O Lord, how frail is man;
And kind­ly length­en out our span,
Till a wise care of pi­ety
Fit us to die, and dwell with Thee.