As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more. Psalm 103:15–16
Words: Isaac Watts, Hymns and Spiritual Songs, Book 2, 1709, number 55.
Frail life, and succeeding eternity.
If you know where to get a good picture of Dyer (head-and-shoulders, at least 200×300 pixels), would you ?
Thee we adore, Eternal Name!
And humbly own to Thee
How feeble is our mortal frame,
What dying worms are we.
Our wasting lives grow shorter still,
As months and days increase;
And every beating pulse we tell
Leaves but the number less.
The year rolls round, and steals away
The breath that first it gave;
Whate’er we do, where’er we be,
We’re traveling to the grave.
Dangers stand thick through all the ground
To push us to the tomb;
And fierce diseases wait around,
To hurry mortals home.
Good God! on what a slender thread
Hang everlasting things!
Th’eternal states of all the dead
Upon life’s feeble strings.
Infinite joy or endless woe
Attends on every breath,
And yet how unconcerned we go
Upon the brink of death!
Waken, O Lord! our drowsy sense,
To walk this dangerous road;
And if our souls be hurried hence,
May they be found with God.