1 How frail are these bodies of clay!
How soon all their vigor is lost!
They flourish in beauty today,
Tomorrow they mingle in dust.

2 So flow’rs in the morning may rise,
Unfolding their leaves to the sun;
The breath of each zephyr that sighs,
May blast them, and soon they are gone.

3 Afflictions spring not from the ground,
Diseases our Sovereign obey;
His hand, it can heal every wound,
Or fill us with death and dismay.

4 We lie in Thy sovereign control,
O Lord, in this hour of distress;
Physician of body and soul,
Send down Thy recovering grace.

5 Oh! speak, and the dear one shall live,
Jehovah, almighty to save!
Thy voice e’en the dead shall revive,
And triumph at last o’er the grave.