Lo What A Feeble Frame Is Ours
Lo what a feeble frame is ours!
How vain a thing is man!
How frail are all our boasted pow’rs!
And short at best our span!
Swift as the feather’d arrow flies,
And cuts the yielding air;
Or as a kindling meteor dies,
Ere it can well appear:
So pass our fleeting years away,
And time runs on its race;
In vain we ask a moment’s stay,
Nor will it slack its pace.
O make us truly wise to learn
How very frail we are;
That we may mind our grand concern,
And for our death prepare.