1 As o’er the past my memory strays,
Why heaves the secret sigh?
’Tis that I mourn departed days,
Still unprepared to die.

2 The world and worldly things beloved,
My anxious thoughts employed;
And time unhallowed, unimproved,
Presents a fearful void.

3 Yet, holy Father, wild despair
Chase from my laboring breast;
Thy grace it is which prompts the prayer,
That grace can do the rest.

4 My life’s brief remnant all be Thine;
And when Thy sure decree
Bids me this fleeting breath resign,
O speed my soul to Thee.