Classic Poem

Part I.

O THOU the Father of us all,
Our refuge from th' original,
That wert our God, before
The airy mountains had their birth,
Or fabric of the peopled earth,
And art for evermore.

But frail man, daily dying, must
At Thy command return to dust;
Or should he ages last,
Ten thousand years are in Thy sight
But like a quadrant of the night,
Or as a day that's past.

He by Thy torrent swept from hence;
An empty dream, which mocks the sense,
And from the fancy flies.
Such as the beauty of the rose,
Which in the dewy morning blows,
Then hangs the head and dies.

Through daily anguish we expire;
Thy anger a consuming fire,
To our offences due.
Our sins (although by night conceal'd,
By shame and fear) are all reveal'd,
And naked to Thy view.

Thus in Thy wrath our years we spend,
And like a sad discourse they end,
Nor but to seventy last;
Or if to eighty they arrive,
We then with age and sickness strive,
Cut off with winged haste.

Part II.

Who knows the terror of Thy wrath,
Or to Thy dreadful anger hath
Proportion'd his due fear?
Teach us to number our frail days,
That we our hearts to Thee may raise,
And wisely sin forbear.

Lord, O how long! at length relent!
And of our miseries repent,
Thy early mercy show;
That we may unknown comfort taste;
For those long days in sorrow past,
As long of joy bestow.

The works of Thy accustom'd grace
Show to Thy servants; on their race
Thy cheerful beams reflect.
O let on us Thy beauty shine!
Bless our attempts with aid Divine,
And by Thy Hand direct.