Behold the man, three score and ten,
Upon a dying bed,
Has run his race and got no grace,
An awful sight indeed!
Poor man, he lies in sore surprise,
And thus he doth complain:
No grace I've got, and cannot I
Recall my time again.
This is the truth, I've spent my youth
In sinful sports and mirth,
Put far away the evil day,
And scarcely thought of death.
My conscience then, could not refrain,
But gave many a check;
But wilfully I put him by,
His voice did I reject.
God's spirit came once and again,
To me from realms above,
Alas! but I would not comply,
I griev'd the heavenly dove.
In middle age I was engag'd
In the affairs of life,
Some wealth to gain that might sustain
My children and my wife,
This world cares did prove a snare,
The devil lead me on,
And now, alas, this is the case,
My day of grace is gone.
My sins are all both great and small,
Before my fixed eye,
And I must go to endless woe,
To burn eternally.
O dreadful hell, where I must dwell,
God's vengeance reigneth there,
I yield my breath to cruel death,
In horror and despair.
My glass is run, I am undone,
No mercy can I find;
And instantly the man doth die,
And leaves no hopes behind,
An awful sight, God grant it might,
A warning be to all,
To seek God's face for saving grace,
And harken to his call.