He by thy Torrent swept from hence;
An empty Dream, which mocks the Sense,
And from the Phansie flies:
Such as the beauty of the Rose,
Which in the dewy Morning blows,
Then hangs the head and dies.
Through daily anguish we expire:
Thy anger a consuming Fire,
To our offences due.
Our sins (although by Night conceal'd,
By shame, and fear) are all reveal'd,
And naked to thy view.
Thus in thy wrath our years we spend;
And like a sad discourse they end,
Nor but to seventy last:
Or if to eighty they arrive,
We then with Age, and Sickness strive;
Cut off with winged hast.
Who knows the terror of thy wrath,
Or to thy dreadful anger hath
Proportion'd his due fear?
Teach us to number our frail Daies,
That we our hearts to Thee may raise,
And wisely sin forbear.
Lord, O how long! at length relent!
And of our miseries repent;
Thy Early Mercy shew:
That we may unknown comfort taste:
For those long daies in sorrow past,
As long of joy bestow.