Like shadows gliding o’er the plain,

Or clouds that roll successive on,

Man’s busy generations pass;

And while we gaze, their forms are gone.

O Father, in whose mighty hand

The boundless years and ages lie,

Teach us Thy boon of life to prize,

And use the moments as they fly;—

To crowd the narrow span of life

With wise designs and virtuous deeds;

And so shall death but lead us on

To nobler service that succeeds.