The time draws near, my soul, when thou
Thy last ac­count must give:
When thy whole life shall be sur­veyed
By Him who bid thee live.

How ma­ny ta­lents, O my God,
Hast Thou be­stowed on me?
But yet how lit­tle can be found,
That I have done for Thee?

My health, my time, my world­ly store,
And Thy more pre­cious Word
Thy ta­lents are; for these must I
Account to Thee, my Lord.

Much of my time, al­as! I’ve lost,
And much have I mis­spent;
How care­less of my grand con­cerns,
On tri­fles how in­tent?

How lit­tle good have I re­ceived?
How lit­tle have I done?
How oft my feet have trod the paths
I know I ought to shun?

Pity my weak­ness, gra­cious God,
My sins thro’ Christ for­give;
Teach me hence­forth not to my­self
But un­to Thee to live.

O may the sloth­ful ser­vant’s doom
My ho­ly care ex­cite:
Each ta­lent may I well im­prove,
And in Thy work de­light.

Then like a faith­ful stew­ard I
Shall stand be­fore Thy seat;
Let me but hear, Well done, at last,
My bliss will be com­plete.