Hay Time by Newton



The grass and flow'rs which clothe the field,

And look so green and gay,

Touch'd by the scythe, defenceless yield,

And fall, and fade away.


Fit emblem of our mortal state:

Thus in the scripture glass,

The young, the strong; the wise, the great;

May see themselves but grass.


O! trust not to your fleeting breath,

Nor call your time your own;

Around you see the scythe of death

Is mowing thousands down.


And you, who hitherto are spar'd,

Must shortly yield your lives:

Your wisdom is to be prepar'd,

Before the stroke arrives.


The grass, when dead, revives no more;

You die to live again;

But oh! if death should prove the door

To everlasting pain.


Lord, help us to obey thy call,

That from our sins set free,

When like the grass our bodies fall,

Our souls may spring to thee.