Behold, O LORD, my days are made
a handbreadth at the most;
ere yet ’tis noon my flow’r must fade,
and I give up the ghost.

Then teach me, Lord, to know mine end,
and know that I am frail;
to heav’n let all my thoughts ascend,
and let not earth prevail.

What is there here that I should wait,
my hope’s in Thee alone;
when wilt Thou open glory’s gate
and call me to Thy throne?

A stranger in this land am I,
a sojourner with Thee;
oh be not silent at my cry,
but show Thyself to me.

Though I’m exiled from glory’s land,
yet not from glory’s King;
my GOD is ever near at hand,
and therefore I will sing.

—Charles Spurgeon, 1866