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.