Like crowded forest trees we stand,
And some are marked to fall:
The axe will smite at God’s command,
And soon may smite us all.
Green as the bay-tree, ever green,
With its new foliage on,
The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen;
I passed, and they were gone.
Read, ye that run, the awful truth,
With which I charge my page;
A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age.
No present health can health insure
For yet an hour to come;
No medicine, though it oft can cure,
Can always balk the tomb.
But, O, if we to Jesus fly,
Whose powerful arm can save;
Then shall our hopes ascend on high,
And triumph o’er the grave.