1 So fades the lovely, blooming flower,
Frail, smiling solace of an hour!
So soon our transient comforts fly,
And pleasure only blooms to die!

2 To certain trouble we are born,
Hope to rejoice, but sure to mourn.
Ah, wretched effort! sad relief,
To plead necessity of grief!

3 Is there no kind, no lenient art,
To heal the anguish of the heart?
To ease the heavy load of care,
Which nature must, but cannot bear?

4 Can reason’s dictates be obeyed?
To weak, alas, her strongest aid!
O let religion then be nigh,
Her comforts were not made to die.

5 Her powerful aid supports the soul,
And nature owns her kind control;
While she unfolds the sacred page,
Our fiercest griefs resign their rage.

6 Then gentle patience smiles on pain,
And dying hope revives again;
Hope wipes the tear from sorrow’s eye,
And faith points upward to the sky.

7 The promise guides her ardent flight,
And joys unknown to sense invite,
Those blissful regions to explore,
Where pleasure blooms, to fade no more.