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This world’s an inn, where all we do
Is just to take a transient view;
And when we fain would longer stay,
Death comes and hurries us away.
Like tender flowers we spring and grow,
Like them we droop and wither too;
Our life’s a dream, and from the womb,
Short is the journey to the tomb.
How few of all the sons of men
Attain to three score years and ten,
And if they should that term survive,
They rather mourn and sigh than live.
The little space that yet remains,
Is occupied with griefs and pains;
Nature beneath its burden bends,
And all the frame to ruin tends.
Great God, impart thy quickening grace,
And make me strong to run my race;
Henceforth may all my talents be
Devoted wholly, Lord, to thee.
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marker 99
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LIST OF LYRIC SOURCES
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Hymn/Song Book
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Year
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Song #
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| 1818 | # 713 |
MUSIC
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Name:
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FULDA (WALTON)(GERMANY)
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Meter:
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8 8 8 8 (L.M.)
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Writer(s):
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Dates:
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1815
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LIST OF MUSIC SOURCES
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Hymn/Song Book
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Song #
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Key
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| # 105 | No key | | # 193 | Ab | | # 1583 | Bb | | # 403 | Bb | | # 464 | Bb | | # 680 | Bb | | # 181 | Bb | | # 316 | Bb | | # 431 | Bb | | # 460 | Bb | | # 465 | Bb | | # 323 | Bb | | # 790 | Bb | | # 120 | Bb | | # 74 | Eb | | # 42 | No key | | # 215 | Bb |
echo ' | ';
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Hymn Writer
