1 Ah! how my days, and months, and years
Encumber'd still with worldly cares,
Or charm'd by folly's syren song,
Roll fast and unimproved along.

2 Yet still the high and holy Lord
Suspends his sin-avenging sword;
And Sinai's lightnings, from above,
Flash guiltless on the shield of love.

3 "At east in Zion," and secure,
How could my startled soul endure
To hear that dread prophetic cry--
"Know, thou this year shalt surely die?"

4 Oh! give me back the seasons past,
The hours, the moments run to waste,
That I, my God, their worth may see,
And dedicate them all to thee.