Man, of a woman born, is heir
To trouble, while on earth he stays;
Though as a flower he bloometh fair,
Few are his mortal days.
Like as that flower, he doth unfold,—
Like it cut down and swiftly gone;—
Or as the shadow none can hold,
He cometh, and hath flown.
And openest Thou Thine eyes of light
On such a frail and fleeting thing?
Or one so worthless in Thy sight,
Wouldst Thou to judgment bring?
From source unclean, who shall be found
To bring forth ought of good or pure?
Not one! while as for man, his bound
Determined is, and sure.
That bound by Thee alone decreed,
He cannot pass—he may not flee—
His months by Thee are numbered,
His days are hidden with Thee.
Oh! turn from him, that he may rest—
Leave him a little while alone,
Lest the poor hireling's day be past,
Ere his day's work be done.
Hope is there of a tree cut down,
That greenly it may shoot once more;
Foliage the tender branch may crown,
And its young bloom restore.
Old may its roots wax in the ground,—
Long withering may its stem remain,
Yet fragrant showers, and streams around,
Shall make it bud again.
But when man dieth, in decay
He wasteth, and no more shall be—
His breath of life once breathed away,
He sinks—and where is he?
As melt the billows of the deep—
As summer floods dry on the plain,
So man doth lay him down to sleep—
No more to wake again.
He shall not raise his slumbering eyes
Until the heavens be seen no more;
Nought doth from death's dark sleep arise—
The grave doth nought restore.
Oh, in that grave might I but hide!
Oh, that Thou wouldst conceal me there,
Until Thy wrath were pacified,
And Thou would'st hold me clear!
Oh, that Thou would'st a time decree?
(Yet if man die, shall he revive?)
Then wouldst Thou but remember me,
And once more bid me live!
That time appointed will I wait,
And all its days in patience bear,
'Till comes my change, when, soon or late,
Call Thou, and I will hear.
To that which Thine own hands have made,
Once more in kindness wilt Thou turn;—
But now my steps are numberèd—
My faults dost Thou discern?
My sins Thou hast together bound,
And sealèd mine iniquities;
With Thee their record will be found,
Against me to arise.
The crumbling mountains waste away,
And falling, they the rocks o'erturn;
The stones do perish in decay,
By dropping waters worn.
The things that grow from dust of earth,
Are swept away and seen no more;
When Thou thy torrents sendest forth,
The hope of man is o'er.
Forever doth prevail Thine hand;—
He perisheth beneath Thy might;—
With changed face, at Thy command,
He passeth out of sight.
To honour though his children come,
Nought doth he know of their renown,
Or fall'n however low, their doom
To him is all unknown.
His flesh shall waste with pain away,
In hopelessness of life forlorn—
Or sleeps the body in decay,
His soul doth wake and mourn.