To princely hall and peasant's cot,
My message is but one;
Or high or low it matters not,
Or rich or poor your earthly lot,
How soon 'twill all be done,
How soon your race be run,
And where, O! where, eternity begun?
You mark the freshly budding green,
The spring-time of the year;
You mark the autumn tints, I ween,
The withered leaves that strew the scene,
And tell that death is here —
To you, e'en you, how near!
And after death, O! how would you appear?
Think, as you greet the morning prime,
Think thro' the passing day,
That, ere the midnight hour shall chime,
For you this now accepted time,
May all be passed away,
Nor aught its flight can stay;
Then why, ye careless ones, O! why delay?
Hark to the Savior's pleading call,
Poor souls: "Why will ye die?”
O! come to Him, both great and small,
His loving heart hath room for all
Who to the refuge fly,
His Word is very nigh;
He shed His blood for sinners, such as you and I.
"THEY CRIED UNTO THE LORD IN THEIR TROUBLE, AND HE DELIVERED THEM OUT OF THEIR DISTRESSES." "O, THAT MEN WOULD PRAISE THE LORD FOR HIS GOODNESS, AND FOR HIS WONDERFUL WORKS TO THE CHILDREN OF MEN.”