1 No, 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 hast'ning 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 glitt'ring dust are your's,
And my Redeemer's mine.