1 Lord what a feeble piece,
Is this our mortal frame?
Our life how poor a trifle t'is,
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 day,
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.