Thee we adore, Eternal Name, And humbly own to Thee How feeble is our mortal frame, What dying worms are we. The year rolls round, and steals away The breath that first it gave; Whate'er we do, where'er we be, We're trav'lling to the grave. Dangers stand thick thro' all the ground, To push us to the tomb; And fierce diseases wait around, To hurry mortals home.