2 Our fathers, where are they,
With all they called their own?
Their joys and griefs, and hopes and cares,
And wealth and honor, gone.

3 God of our fathers! hear;
Thou everlasting Friend!
While we, as on life's utmost verge,
Our souls to thee commend.

4 Of all the pious dead

May we the footsteps trace,

Till with them, in the land of light,
We dwell before thy face.

Man mortal, and God eternal. Ps. 90.

1 THROUGH every age, eternal God,
Thou art our rest, our safe abode :
High was thy throne ere heaven was made,
Or earth thy humble footstool laid.

2 Long hast thou reigned ere time began,
Or dust was fashioned into man;
And long thy kingdom shall endure,
When earth and time shall be no more.

3 A thousand of our years amount
Scarce to a day in thine account;
Like yesterday's departed light,
Or the last watch of ending night.
4 Death, like an overflowing stream,
Sweeps us away; our life's a dream;
An empty tale; a morning flower,
Cut down and withered in an hour.

5 Teach us, O Lord, how frail is man! And kindly lengthen out our span, Till a wise care of piety

Fit us to die and dwell with thee.

Man frail, and God eternal. Ps. 90.

1 OUR God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home;

2 Before the hills in order stood,
Or earth received her frame,
From everlasting thou art God,
To endless years the same.

3 Thy word commands our flesh to dust,
"Return, ye sons of men:"
All nations rose from earth at first,
And turn to earth again.

4 A thousand ages, in thy sight, Are like an evening gone;

Short as the watch that ends the night,
Before the rising sun.

5 Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.

6 Like flowery fields the nations stand, Pleased with the morning light:

The flowers beneath the mower's hand Lie withering ere 't is night.

7 Our God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,

Be thou our guard while troubles last,
And our eternal home.

Frailty and Shortness of Life. Ps. 90.
1 LORD, what a feeble piece
Is this our mortal frame!
Our life, how poor a trifle 't is,
That scarce deserves the name!

2 Alas! 'twas brittle clay
That built our body first!
And every month and every day
'Tis mouldering back to dust.

3 Our moments fly apace,

Nor will our minutes stay;
Just like a flood, our hasty days
Are sweeping us away.

4 Well, if our days must fly,

We'll keep their end in sight;
We'll spend them all in wisdom's way,
And let them speed their flight.

5 They'll waft us sooner o'er
This life's tempestuous sea:

Soon we shall reach the peaceful shore
Of blest eternity.

351

447.

C. M.

TATE & BRADY.

Man frail, and God eternal. Ps. 90.

1 O LORD, the saviour and defence
Of us thy chosen race,

From age to age thou still hast been
Our sure abiding place.

2 Before thou brought'st the mountains forth,
Or earth received its frame,
Thou always wert the mighty God,
And ever art the same.

3 Thou turnest man, O Lord, to dust,
Of which he first was made;

And when thou speak'st the word, Return, 'Tis instantly obeyed.

4 For in thy sight a thousand years
Are like a day that's past,

Or like a watch in dead of night,
Whose hours unminded waste.

5 So teach us, Lord, the uncertain sum
Of our short days to mind,

That to true wisdom all our hearts
May ever be inclined.

Our Bodies frail, and God our Preserver.

1 LET others boast how strong they be,
Nor death nor danger fear;

But we'll confess, O Lord, to thee,
What feeble things we are.

2 Fresh as the grass our bodies stand,
And flourish bright and gay;

A blasting wind sweeps o'er the land,
And fades the grass away.

3 Our life contains a thousand springs,
And dies, if one be gone;

Strange! that a harp of thousand strings Should keep in tune so long.

4 But 'tis our God supports our frame, The God who built us first; Salvation to the Almighty Name

That reared us from the dust.

5 While we have breath, or use our tongues, Our Maker we'll adore;

His Spirit moves our heaving lungs,
Or they would breathe no more.

449.

C. M.

WATTS.

Frail Life, and succeeding Eternity.

1 THEE we adore, Eternal Name,
And humbly own to thee
How feeble is our mortal frame;
What dying worms are we!

2 Our wasting lives grow shorter still,
As months and days increase;
And every beating pulse we tell
Leaves but the number less.

3 The year rolls round, and steals away
The breath that first it gave;
Whate'er we do, where'er we be,
We're travelling to the grave.