1 Death, like an overflowing stream,
Sweeps us away; our life’s a dream,
An empty tale, a morning flow’r,
Cut down and withered in an hour.

2 Our age to sev’nty years is set;
How short the time! How frail the state!
And if to eighty we arrive,
We’d rather sigh and groan than live.

3 Teach us, O Lord, how frail is man;
And kindly lengthen out the span,
Till a wise care of piety
Fit us to die and dwell with Thee.