Passing away.

TIME, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly, forgotten, as a dream Dies at the op'ning day.

Like flow'ry fields the nations stand, Pleased with the morning light; The flow'rs beneath the mower's hand Lie withering ere 'tis night.

Thy word commands our flesh to dust "Return, ye sons of men," All nations rose from earth at first, And turn to earth again.

A thousand ages in thy sight, Are like an ev'ning gone; Short as the watch that ends the night, Before the rising sun.