by John Newton

“ Time, with an unwearied hand, Pushes round the seasons past, And in life’s frail glass, the sand Sinks apace, not long to last: Many, well as you or I, Who last year assembled thus; In their silent graves now lie, Graves will open soon for us! Daily sin, and care, and strife, While the Lord prolongs our breath, Make it but a dying life, Or a kind of living death: Wretched they, and most forlorn, Who no better portion know; Better ne’er to have been born, Than to have our all below. When constrained to go alone, Leaving all you love behind ”

“ Entering on a world unknown, What will then support your mind? When the Lord His summons sends, Earthly comforts lose their power; Honors, riches, kindred, friends, Cannot cheer a dying hour. Happy souls who fear the Lord Time is not too swift for you ”