Thankless for favors from on high,
Man thinks he fades too soon:
Though ’tis his privilege to die,
Would he improve the boon.

But he, not wise enough to scan
His best concerns aright,
Would gladly stretch life’s little span
To ages, if he might.

To ages in a world of pain,
To ages, where he goes
Galled by affliction’s heavy chain,
And hopeless of repose.

Strange fondness of the human heart,
Enamored of its harm!
Strange world, that costs it so much smart,
And still has power to charm.

Whence has the world her magic power?
Why deem we death a foe?
Recoil from weary life’s last hour,
And covet longer woe?

The cause is conscience: conscience oft
Her tale of guilt renews;
Her voice is terrible, though soft,
And dread of death ensues.

Then, anxious to be longer spared,
Man mourns his fleeting breath;
All evils then seem light compared
With the approach of death.

’Tis judgment shakes him: there’s the fear
That prompts his wish to stay;
He has incurred a long arrear,
And must despair to pay.

Pay! Follow Christ, and all is paid:
His death your peace ensures;
Think on the grave where He was laid,
And calm descend to yours.