My End, Lord, Make Me Know,
My Days, How Soon They Fail;
And To My Thoughtful Spirit Show
How Weak I Am And Frail.
To Thy Eternal Thought
My Days Are But A Span;
To Thee My Years Appear As Naught,
A Breath At Best Is Man.
O Lord, Regard My Fears,
And Answer My Request;
Turn Not In Silence From My Tears,
But Give The Mourner Rest.
I Am A Stranger Here,
Dependent On Thy Grace,
A Pilgrim, As My Fathers Were,
With No Abiding Place
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