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Hymn 2

John Newton


Time how short.

Time, with an unwearied hand,

Pushes round the seasons past,

And in life’s frail glass, the sand

Sinks apace, not long to last:

Many, well as you or I,

Who last year assembled thus;

In their silent graves now lie,

Graves will open soon for us!

Daily sin, and care, and strife,

While the Lord prolongs our breath,

183 Make it but a dying life,

Or a kind of living death:

Wretched they, and most forlorn,

Who no better portion know;

Better ne’er to have been born,

Than to have our all below.

When constrained to go alone,

Leaving all you love behind;

Ent’ring on a world unknown,

What will then support your mind?

When the Lord his summons sends,

Is 10:3

Earthly comforts lose their pow’r;

Honors, riches, kindred, friends,

Cannot cheer a dying hour.

Happy souls who fear the LORD

Time is not too swift for you;

When your Savior gives the word,

Glad you’ll bid the world adieu:

Then he’ll wipe away your tears,

Near himself appoint your place;

Swifter fly, ye rolling years,

LORD, we long to see thy face.

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