1 Lord what a feeble piece Is this our mortal frame! Our life how poor a trifle 'tis, That scarce deserves the name!
2 Alas the brittle clay That built our body first! And every month, and every day 'Tis mouldering back to dust.
3 Our moments fly apace, Nor will our minutes stay; Just like a flood our hasty days Are sweeping us away.
4 Well if our days must fly, We'll keep their end in sight, We'll spend them all in wisdom's way, And let them speed their flight.
5 They'll waft us sooner o'er This life's tempestuous sea: Soon we shall reach the peaceful shore Of blest eternity.