Short is the measure of our days,
Thou Maker of our frame;
When we survey life's narrow space
We learn how low man's aim.
A span is all that we can boast,
An inch or two of time;
Man is but vanity and dust
In all his flower and prime.
What should we wish or wait for, then,
From creatures, earth and dust?
To Thee they will not look in vain,
Who put in Thee their trust.
Thou wilt Thy promise sure fulfil
And bring life from above;
All good establish, banish ill,
And manifest Thy love.