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 ev'ry month, and ev'ry day,
'Tis mould'ring 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.
Text Information | |
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First Line: | Lord, what a feeble piece |
Title: | The frailty, and shortness of Life |
Meter: | Short Metre |
Language: | English |
Publication Date: | 1780 |
Scripture: | ; ; |