1 How many kindred souls are fled
To the vast regions of the dead,
Since from this day the changing sun
Through his last yearly period run!

2 We yet survive; but who can say,
Or through the year, or month or day,
I will retain this vital breath;
Thus far at least in league with death?

3 That breath is Thine, eternal God,
’This Thine to fix the soul’s abode;
It holds its life from Thee alone,
On earth, or in the world unknown.

4 To Thee our spirits we resign,
Make them and own them, still as Thine;
So shall they smile, secure from fear,
Though death should blast the rising year.