Isaac Watts, 1674-1748
Teach me the measure of my days,|
Thou Maker of my frame;
I would survey life's narrow space,
And learn how frail I am.
2. A span is all that we can boast,
3. See the vain race of mortals move
4. Some walk in honor's gaudy show,|
Some dig for golden ore;
They toil for heirs, they know not who,
And straight are seen no more.
5. What should I wish or wait for, then,
6. Now I forbid my carnal hope,
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