1 Teach me the Measure of my Days,
Thou Maker of my Frame;
I would survey Life's narrow Space,
And learn how frail I am.

2 A Span is all that we can boast,
An Inch or two of Time;
Man is but Vanity and Dust
In all his Flow'r and Prime.

3 See the vain Race of Mortals move
Like Shadows o'er the Plain;
They rage and strive, desire and love,
But all the Noise is vain.

4 Some walk in Honour's gaudy Show,
Some dig for golden Ore,
They toil for Heirs they know not who,
And strait are seen no more.

5 What should I wish or wait for then
From Creatures, Earth and Dust?
They make our Expectations vain,
And disappoint our Trust.

6 Now I forbid my carnal Hope,
My fond Desires recal;
I give my mortal Int'rest up,
And make my GOD my All.