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John Newton - Time How Short
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Time, with an unwearied hand,
Pushes round the seasons past,
And in life`s frail glass, the sand
Sinks apace, not long to last:
Many, well as you or I,
Who last year assembled thus;
In their silent graves now lie,
Graves will open soon for us! 

Daily sin, and care, and strife,
While the Lord prolongs our breath,
Make it but a dying life,
Or a kind of living death:
Wretched they, and most forlorn,
Who no better portion know;
Better ne`er to have been born,
Than to have our all below. 

When constrained to go alone,
Leaving all you love behind;
Ent`ring on a world unknown,
What will then support your mind?
When the Lord his summons sends,
Earthly comforts lose their pow`r;
Honours, riches, kindred, friends,
Cannot cheer a dying hour. 

Happy souls who fear the Lord
Time is not too swift for you;
When your Saviour gives the word,
Glad you`ll bid the world adieu:
Then he`ll wipe away your tears,
Near himself appoint your place;
Swifter fly, ye rolling years,
Lord, we long to see thy face.
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