Still three things twist man's mind
until the day his doom is sealed
age, illness or some stroke of hate
will seize sense from him
Virtue is fallen, visions are faded
the weak are left to hold this world
worn low. The flower of the field is old
the leaf is withered and the laurel sere
Throughout this middle isthmus man
meets age hoar-headed, bleak of face
by former friends forsaken, grieving over
scions of lineage long since gone
Nor can his sinful soul, quaking before his God
call hoarded gold or mortal glory to his aid
that Architect is awesome
Whose might moves the world
Whose hand has fixed the firmament
earth's vaults and vapours
A man should steer a steadfast course
be constant, clean and just in judgement
a man should curb his love or loathing
though flame consume his comrade
and fire the funeral pyre
for fate is set more surely
God more great, than any man surmise
Come, consider where we have a home, how
we can travel to it, how our travail here
will lead us to the living well-head
and heaven haven of our Lord's love