How frail is man! his life a span;
The creature of a day;
The Spirit blows, his beauty goes.
And quickly fades away.
Bliss is his aim, by wealth or fame,
Or pleasure’s keen pursuit;
But all he gains for ceaseless pains
Is Sin’s unhallow’d fruit.
Though man, alas! is but as grass,
A vapor, or a flame,
Yet God, who’s great, did him create
For glory to His name.
And though true joy, without alloy,
Is found on earth by none;
There’s purest bliss, yea, joy and peace,
In God’s beloved Son.
His Son He gave, who came to save,
And bear our guilt and woe,
That perfect peace and happiness
To us might freely flow.
He who believes, and Christ receives,
Has reach’d the Fount of joy;
And God will praise to endless days,
And love the blest employ.
ML 03/28/1909