[Our wasting lives grow shorter still

As months and days increase;

And every beating pulse we tell

Leaves but the number less.

The year rolls round, and steals away

The breath that first it gave;

Whate'er we do, where'er we be,

We're trav'lling to the grave.]

Dangers stand thick through all the ground

To push us to the tomb,

And fierce diseases wait around,

To hurry mortals home.

Great God! on what a slender thread

Hang everlasting things!

Th' eternal states of all the dead

Upon life's feeble strings.

Infinite joy or endless woe

Attends on every breath,

And yet how unconcerned we go

Upon the brink of death!

Waken, O Lord! our drowsy sense,

To walk this dangerous road;

And if our souls be hurried hence,

May they be found with God.