Look, Christian, On Thy Bible, And That Glass That Sheds Its Sand Through Minutes, Hours, And Days, And Years; It Speaks Not, Yet, Methinks, It Says, To Every Human Heart: So Mortals Pass On To Their Dark And Silent Grave! Alas For Man! An Exile Upon Earth He Strays, Weary, And Wandering Through Benighted Ways; To-Day In Strength, To-Morrow Like The Grass That Withers At His Feet! Lift Up Thy Head, Poor Pilgrim, Toiling In This Vale Of Tears; That Book Declares Whose Blood For Thee Was Shed, Who Died To Give Thee Life; And Though Thy Years Pass Like A Shade, Pointing To Thy Death-Bed, Out Of The Deep Thy Cry An Angel Hears, And By His Guiding Hand Thy Steps To Heaven Are Led!