Lord, what a feeble piece Is this our mortal frame! Our life, how poor a trifle 'tis, That scarce deserves the name! Alas! 'twas brittle clay, That built our body first! And ev'ry month and ev'ry day 'Tis mould'ring back to dust. Our moments fly apace, Our feeble pow'rs decay; Swift as a flood our hasty days Are sweeping us away.