1 The grass and flowers, which clothe the field,
And look so green and gay;
Touched by the scythe, defenseless yield,
And fall, and fade away.
2 Fit emblem of our mortal state!
Thus in the scripture glass,
The young, the strong, the wise, the great,
May see themselves but grass.
3 Ah! trust not to your fleeting breath,
Nor call your time your own;
Around you see the scythe of death
Is mowing thousands down.
4 And you, who hitherto are spared,
Must shortly yield your lives;
Your wisdom is to be prepared,
Before the stroke arrives.
5 The grass, when dead, revives no more:
You die to live again;
Beware lest death should prove the door
To everlasting pain.
6 Lord, help us to obey thy call,
And all our sins remove,
That when like grass our bodies fall,
Our souls may rise above.
The Hartford Selection of Hymns from the most approved authors, 1799