Teach Me The Measure Of My Days,
Thou Maker Of My Frame;
I Would Survey Life’s Narrow Space,
And Learn How Frail I Am.
A Span Is All That We Can Boast,
An Inch Or Two Of Time;
Man Is But Vanity And Dust
In All His Flower And Prime.
See The Vain Race Of Mortals Move
Like Shadows Over The Plain;
They Rage And Strive, Desire And Love,
But All The Noise Is Vain.
Some Walk In Honour’s Gaudy Show,
Some Dig For Golden Ore;
They Toil For Heirs, They Know Not Who,
And Straight Are Seen No More.
What Should I Wish Or Wait For, Then,
From Creatures Earth And Dust?
They Make Our Expectations Vain,
And Disappoint Our Trust.
Now I Forbid My Carnal Hope,
My Fond Desires Recall;
I Give My Mortal Interest Up,
And Make My God My All.