Time, with an unwearied hand

by John Newton (1725-1807)

Time how short 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;

When your Savior gives the word,

Glad you’ll bid the world adieu:

Then He’ll wipe away your tears,

Near Himself appoint your place;

Swifter fly, ye rolling years,

Lord, we long to see Thy face.