1 Our days, alas! our mortal days
Are short and wretched too;
|Evil and few,| the patriarch says,
And well the patriarch knew.
2 'Tis but at best a narrow bound
That heaven allows to men,
And pains and sins run thro' the round
Of threescore years and ten.
3 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.
4 Let heavenly love prepare my soul,
And call her to the skies,
Where years of long salvation roll,
And glory never dies.