1 Old age, with all its sickly train,
Soon makes its dread approach;
Languor, debility and pain,
Insensibly encroach.

2 Life’s gaieties have charms no more,
Its pleasures but appall:
The busy scenes and toils are o’er,
The honey turned to gall.

3 The lucid orbs of vision fail,
And give a glimmering light;
Successive clouds of grief prevail,
Transforming day to night.

4 Associates and friends once dear,
On earth are known no more;
Minds uncongenial now appear,
A race unknown before.

5 How dark the scene, how full of woe,
Alas for hoary age;
Yet grace will still a balm bestow,
Their sorrows to assuage.

6 There is a friend who still abides,
More dear than all that’s lost:
And he who in this friend confides,
May yet of comforts boast.

7 ’Tis Jesus, who will ne’er forsake,
But make His friends His care;
To Him your griefs and sorrows take,
And He your griefs will share.

8 Soon will He bring your weary feet
To His eternal rest;
Then shall your joys be all complete,
When in His mansion blessed.