Our days, alas! our mortal days

Are short and wretched too;

"Evil and few," the patriarch says,

And well the patriarch knew.

'Tis but at best a narrow bound

That Heav'n allows to men,

And pains and sins run through the round

Of threescore years and ten.

Well, if ye must be sad and few,

Run on, my days, in haste;

Moments of sin and months of woe,

Ye cannot fly too fast.

Let heav'nly love prepare my soul,

And call her to the skies,

Where years of long salvation roll,

And glory never dies.