Psalm 90 (Version 1)

Thro' every age, eternal God,

Thou art our rest, our safe abode;

High was thy throne ere heaven was made,

Or earth thy humble footstool laid.

Long hadst thou reign'd ere time began,

Or dust was fashion'd to a man;

And long thy kingdom shall endure

When earth and time shall be no more.

But man, weak man, is born to die,

Made up of guilt and vanity;

Thy dreadful sentence, Lord, was just,

"Return, ye sinners, to your dust."

[A thousand of our years amount

Scarce to a day in thine account;

Like yesterday's departed light,

Or the last watch of ending night.]

Death like an overflowing stream

Sweeps us away; our life's a dream;

An empty tale; a morning flower

Cut down and wither'd in an hour.

[Our age to seventy years is set;

How short the term! how frail the state!

And if to eighty we arrive,

We rather sigh and groan than live.

But O how oft thy wrath appears,

And cuts off our expected years!

Thy wrath awakes our humble dread;

We fear the power that strikes us dead.]

Teach us, O Lord, how frail is man;

And kindly lengthen out our span,

Till a wise care of piety

Fit us to die, and dwell with thee.