1 Behold the path that mortals tread
Down to the regions of the dead!
Nor will the fleeting moments stay,
Nor can we measure back our way.
2 Our kindred and our friends are gone:
Know, oh my soul, this doom thine own:
Feeble as theirs, my mortal frame,
The same my way, my house the same.
3 And must I, from the cheerful light,
Pass to the grave's perpetual night?
From scenes of duty, means of grace,
Must I to God's tribunal pass?
4 Away, my soul, thy way prepare,
And lose, in this, each mortal care;
With steady feet that path be trod,
Which through the grave conducts to God.Source: The Book of Worship #421