Our Life Is Like a Vapor, Gone

Our life is like a va­por

gone

Our mo­ments swift­ly fly;

Lo

scarce our sands be­gin to run

Ere we be­gin to die.

Our days on earth are but a span

A sud­den breath of air;

Lord

what a brit­tle thing is man

How vain is mor­tal care.

Various un­num­bered ills at­tend

Our weak and help­less frame

Our fleet­ing life

so soon it ends

It scarce de­serves the name.

No weav­er’s shut­tle moves so fast

No stream so swift­ly flows;

Time bears us on with ra­pid haste

To end­less joys or woes.

See

sick­ness

sor­row round us wait

And nature is in­firm;

Our age to se­ven­ty years is set

Alas

how short the term!

Or

should we by un­com­mon strength

To four­score years at­tain

Yet fee­ble­ness will come at length

And bring dis­ease and pain.

Oh may I learn the heav’n­ly art

T’improve each pass­ing hour;

And what my hands shall find to do

Dispatch with all my pow­er.