I Lord, what a feeble piece
Is this our mortal frame?
Our life how poor a trifle 'tis,
That scarce deserves the name!

II Alas, the brittle clay
That built our body first!
And ev'ry month, and ev'ry day,
'Tis mould'ring back to dust.

III Our moments fly apace,
Nor will our minutes stay;
Just like a flood our hasty days
Are sweeping us away.

IV 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.

V They'll waft us sooner o'er
This life's tempestuous sea;
Soon we shall reach the peaceful shore
Of blest eternity.