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’er 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.

Recordings 1