Like shadows gliding o’er the plain,
Or clouds that roll successive on,
Man’s busy generations pass;
And while we gaze, their forms are gone.
O Father, in whose mighty hand
The boundless years and ages lie,
Teach us Thy boon of life to prize,
And use the moments as they fly;—
To crowd the narrow span of life
With wise designs and virtuous deeds;
And so shall death but lead us on
To nobler service that succeeds.