The frailty of life.

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

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

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

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.

They'll waft us sooner o'er This life's tempest'ous sea! Soon we shall reach the peaceful shore Of blest eternity.