How Frail Are These Bodies of Clay!

How frail are these bo­dies of clay!

How soon all their vi­gor is lost!

They flour­ish in beau­ty to­day

Tomorrow they min­gle in dust.

So flow’rs in the morn­ing may rise

Unfolding their leaves to the sun;

The breath of each ze­phyr that sighs

May blast them

and soon they are gone.

Afflictions spring not from the ground

Diseases our sov­er­eign ob­ey;

His hand

it can heal ev­ery wound

Or fill us with death and dis­may.

We lie in Thy sov­er­eign con­trol

O Lord

in this hour of dis­tress;

Physician of bo­dy and soul

Send down Thy re­co­ver­ing grace.

Oh! speak

and the dear one shall live

Jehovah

al­migh­ty to save!

Thy voice e’en the dead shall re­vive

And tri­umph at last o’er the grave.