BEHOLD, O Lord, my days are made

BEHOLD, O Lord, my days are made A handbreadth at the most; Ere yet 'tis noon my flower must fade, And I give up the ghost.

Then teach me, Lord, to know mine end, And know that I am frail; To heaven let all my thoughts ascend, And let not earth prevail.

What is there here that I should wait, My hope's in Thee alone; When wilt Thou open glory's gate And call me to Thy throne?

A stranger in this land am I, A sojourner with Thee; Oh be not silent at my cry, But show Thyself to me.

Though I'm exiled from glory's land, Yet not from glory's King; My God is ever near at hand, And therefore I will sing. Charles H. Spurgeon,