Life is short, and man is frail;
To the blast he soon must yield,
Like the flower that decks the field;
Life is short, and man is frail.
Man, alas, to woe is born;
He a weight of sorrow bears;
He a wreath of cypress wears;
Man, alas, to woe is born.
Look, O man, to Christ the Son;
There is pleasure, peace, and rest;
Thou in Him mayst now be blest; Look,
O man, to Christ the Son.
Bliss and endless life are thine,
Soon as Him thou dost receive;
Dost thou on the Son believe?
Life and blessing, then, are thine.