Let others boast how strong they be,
Nor death nor danger fear;
But we'll confess, O Lord, to thee,
What feeble things we are.

Fresh as the grass our bodies stand,
And flourish bright and gay;
A blasting wind sweeps o'er the land,
And fades the grass away.

Our life contains a thousand springs,
And dies if one be gone;
Strange, that a harp of thousand strings
Should keep in tune so long!

But 'tis our God supports our frame,
The God that built us first:
Salvation to th' Almighty name
That reared us from the dust.

[He spoke, and straight our hearts and brains
In all their motions rose;
"Let blood," said he, "flow round the veins,"
And round the veins it flows.

While we have breath, or use our tongues,
Our Maker we'll adore;
His Spirit moves our heaving lungs,
Or they would breathe no more.]