MY end, Lord, make me know, My days how soon they fail; And to my thoughtful spirit show How weak I am and frail.
To Thine eternal thought My days are but a span, To Thee my years appear as nought; A breath—at best—is man.
O Lord, regard my fears, And answer my request, Turn not in silence from my tears, But give the mourner rest.
I am a stranger here, Dependent on Thy grace, A pilgrim as my fathers were, With no abiding place.
O spare me and forgive, Ere this short life is past, That I may serve Thee here, and live With Thee in Heaven at last.
The Psalter, 1912‡