"My days are as the grass;"
Swiftly my seasons pass,
And like the flower of the field I fade.
O soul, dost thou not see
The wise have likened thee
To the most living creature that is made?
"My days are as the grass;"
The sliding waters pass
Under my roots; upon me drops the clouds;
And not the stately trees
Have kinder ministries;
The heavens are too lofty to be proud.
"My days are as the grass,"
The troops of trouble pass
And leave me trampled that I cannot rise;
But wait a little while,
And I shall lift and smile
Before the sweet congratulating skies.
"My days are as the grass,"
Soon out of sight I pass;
And in the bare earth I must hide my head,
The wind that passes o'er
Will find my place no more;
The wind of death will tell that I am dead.
But how shall I rejoice
When I shall hear the voice
Of Him who, keeping spring with Him alway,
Lest hope from man should pass,
Hath made us as the grass;
The grass that always has another day!
