Time, with an unwearied hand

Time how short by John Newton


 * 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;
 * Entering on a world unknown,
 * What will then support your mind?
 * When the Lord His summons sends,
 * Earthly comforts lose their power;
 * Honors, riches, kindred, friends,
 * Cannot cheer a dying hour.


 * Happy souls who fear the Lord
 * Time is not too swift for you;
 * When your Savior 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.