1 O, I shall envy them no more Who grow profanely great, Tho' they increase their golden store, And rise to wondrous height.
2 They taste of all the joys that grow Upon this earthly clod, Well they may search the creature thro', For they have ne'er a God.
3 Shake off the thoughts of dying too, And think your life your own; But death comes hastening on to you To mow your glory down.
4 Yes, you must bow your stately head, Away your spirit flies, And no kind angel near your bed To bear it to the skies.
5 Go now, and boast of all your stores, And tell how bright you shine; Your heaps of glittering dust are yours, And my Redeemer's mine.