Isaac Watts, 1674-1748
Think, mighty God, on feeble man;|
How few his hours! how short his span!
Short from the cradle to the grave
Who can secure his vital breath
Against the bold demands of death,
With skill to fly, or power to save?
2. Lord, shall it be for ever said,
3. Hast thou not promised to thy Son|
And all his seed a heav'nly crown?
But flesh and sense indulge despair:
For ever blessed be the Lord,
That faith can read his holy word,
And find a resurrection there.
4. For ever blessed be the Lord,
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