Old Age, with All Its Sickly Train

Old age

with all its sick­ly train

Soon makes its dread ap­proach;

Languor

de­bi­li­ty and pain

Insensibly en­croach.

Life’s gai­eties have charms no more

Its plea­sures but ap­pall:

The bu­sy scenes and toils are o’er

The hon­ey turned to gall.

The lu­cid orbs of vi­sion fail

And give a glim­mer­ing light;

Successive clouds of grief pre­vail

Transforming day to night.

Associates and friends once dear

On earth are known no more;

Minds un­con­ge­ni­al now ap­pear

A race un­known be­fore.

How dark the scene

how full of woe

Alas for hoa­ry age;

Yet grace will still a balm be­stow

Their sor­rows to as­suage.

There is a friend who still ab­ides

More dear than all that’s lost:

And he who in this friend con­fides

May yet of com­forts boast.

’Tis Je­sus

who will ne’er for­sake

But make His friends His care;

To Him your griefs and sor­rows take

And He your griefs will share.

Soon will He bring your wea­ry feet

To His eter­nal rest;

Then shall your joys be all com­plete

When in His man­sion blessed.