1 O, I shall envy them no more
Who grow profanely great,
Tho' they increase their golden store,
And rise to wondrous height.
2 They taste of all the joys that grow
Upon this earthly clod,
Well they may search the creature thro',
For they have ne'er a God.
3 Shake off the thoughts of dying too,
And think your life your own;
But death comes hastening on to you
To mow your glory down.
4 Yes, you must bow your stately head,
Away your spirit flies,
And no kind angel near your bed
To bear it to the skies.
5 Go now, and boast of all your stores,
And tell how bright you shine;
Your heaps of glittering dust are yours,
And my Redeemer's mine.