The Human

His days are few and full of woe:
He springs and burgeons like a flower:
The sickle finds him ere an hour:
He goeth as the shadows go.

The flower may win a second birth:
But man is dead and vanisheth:
He sighs away his feeble breath,
And who can find him on the earth?

His children grow to power and fame;
They fall to grievous want and sin:
He sleeps his narrow grave within,
Nor cares for all their grace or shame.

He sinks to rest and will not rise:
The firmament shall pass away;
But still he sleeps in calm decay,
And none can make him lift his eyes.

Oh, that thou mightest hide me fast,
Conceal me, fold me safe in gloom,
Yea, draw the curtains of my tomb,
Until thy judgments hasten past!