Ere mountains reared their forms sublime,
Or Heav’n and earth in order stood,
Before the birth of ancient time,
From everlasting Thou art God.

A thousand ages, in their flight,
With Thee are as a fleeting day;
Past, present, future, to Thy sight
At once their various scenes display.

But our brief life’s a shadowy dream,
A passing thought that soon is o’er,
That fades with morning’s earliest beam,
And fills the musing mind no more.

To us, O Lord, the wisdom give
Each passing moment so to spend,
That we at length with Thee may live
Where life and bliss shall never end.

Have mercy on us, God most high,
Who lift our hearts to Thee;
Have mercy on us worms of earth,
Most holy Trinity.

Most ancient of all mysteries!
Before Thy throne we lie;
Have mercy now, most Merciful,
Most holy Trinity.

When heaven and earth were yet unmade,
When time was yet unknown,
Thou, in Thy bliss and majesty,
Didst live and love alone.

Thou wert not born; there was no fount
From which Thy Being flowed;
There is no end which Thou canst reach;
But Thou art simply God.

How wonderful creation is,
The work that Thou didst bless;
And oh, what then must Thou be like,
Eternal Loveliness!

How beautiful the angels are,
The saints how bright in bliss;
But with Thy beauty, Lord, compared,
How dull, how poor is this.

O listen, then, most pitiful,
To Thy poor creature’s heart:
It blesses Thee that Thou art God;
That Thou art what Thou art.

Most ancient of all mysteries!
Still at Thy throne we lie;
Have mercy now, most Merciful,
Most holy Trinity.

Through every age, eternal God,
Thou art our rest, our safe abode;
High was Thy throne ere Heav’n was made,
Or earth Thy humble footstool laid.

Long hadst Thou reigned ere time began,
Or dust was fashioned to a man;
And long Thy kingdom shall endure
When earth and time shall be no more.

But man, weak man, is born to die,
Made up of guilt and vanity;
Thy dreadful sentence, Lord, was just,
Return, ye sinners, to your dust.

A thousand of our years amount
Scarce to a day in Thine account;
Like yesterday’s departed light,
Or the last watch of ending night.

Death, like an overflowing stream,
Sweeps us away; our life’s a dream,
An empty tale, a morning flower,
Cut down and withered in an hour.

Our age to seventy years is set;
How short the time! how frail the state!
And if to eighty we arrive,
We rather sigh and groan than live.

But O how oft Thy wrath appears,
And cuts off our expected years!
Thy wrath awakes our humble dread;
We fear the power that strikes us dead.

Teach us, O Lord, how frail is man;
And kindly lengthen out our span,
Till a wise care of piety
Fit us to die, and dwell with Thee.