Few, few and evil are thy days,
Man, of a woman born;
Peril and trouble haunt thy ways;
Forth, like a flower at morn,
The tender infant springs to light,
Youth blossoms to the breeze,
Age, withering age, is cropt ere night;
Man like a shadow flees.
And dost thou look on such an one?
Will God to judgment call
A worm, for what a worm hath done
Against the Lord of all?
As fail the waters from the deep,
As summer-brooks run dry,
Man lieth down in dreamless sleep,
His life is vanity.
Man lieth down, no more to wake,
Till yonder arching sphere
Shall, with a roll of thunder, break,
And nature disappear.
O hide me, till Thy wrath be past,
Thou who canst slay or save!
Hide me, where hope may anchor fast,
In my Redeemer's grave.
Source: Sacred Poems and Hymns #215