As o’er the past my memory strays,

Why heaves the secret sigh?

’Tis that I mourn departed days,

Still unprepared to die.

2 The world and worldly things beloved,

My anxious thoughts employed;

And time, unhallowed, unimproved,

Presents a fearful void.

3 Yet, Holy Father, wild despair

Chase from my laboring breast;

Thy grace it is which prompts the prayer,

That grace can do the rest.

4 My life’s brief remnant all be thine;

And when thy sure decree

Bids me this fleeting breath resign,

O, speed my soul to thee.