Teach me the mea­sure of my days,
Thou Mak­er of my frame;
I would sur­vey life’s nar­row space,
And learn how frail I am.

A span is all that we can boast,
An inch or two of time;
Man is but va­ni­ty and dust
In all his flow­er and prime.

See the vain race of mor­tals move
Like sha­dows o’er the plain;
They rage and strive, de­sire and love,
But all the noise is vain.

Some walk in hon­or’s gau­dy show,
Some dig for gold­en ore;
They toil for heirs they know not who,
And straight are seen no more.

What should I wish or wait for then,
From crea­tures, earth and dust?
They make our ex­pec­ta­tions vain,
And dis­ap­point our trust.

Now I for­bid my car­nal hope,
My fond de­sires re­call;
I give my mor­tal in­ter­est up,
And make my God my all.