The Vanity of Man as Mortal
Teach me the measure of my days, Thou Maker of my frame; I would survey life’s narrow space, And learn how frail I am. A span is all that we can boast, An inch or two of time; Man is but vanity and dust In all his flower and prime. See the vain race of mortals move Like shadows o’er the plain; They rage and strive, desire and love, But all the noise is vain. Some walk in honor’s gaudy show, Some dig for golden ore; They toil for heirs, they know not who, And straight are seen no more. What should I wish or wait for, then, From creatures earth and dust? They make our expectations vain, And disappoint our trust. Now I forbid my carnal hope, My fond desires recall; I give my mortal interest up, And make my God my all.
Steven R. Cook, M.Div.