by Issac Watts

Our days, alas! our mortal days
Are short and wretched too;
Evil and few, the patriarch says,
And well the patriarch knew.

'Tis but at best a narrow bound
That Heaven allows to men,
And pains and sins run through the round
Of threescore years and ten.

Well, if ye must be sad and few,
Run on, my days, in haste.
Moments of sin, and months of woe,
Ye cannot fly too fast.

Let Heavenly Love prepare my soul
And call her to the skies,
Where years of long salvation roll,
And glory never dies.

The King of Glory sends his Son
To make his entrance on this earth;
Behold the midnight bright as noon,
And heavenly hosts declare his birth.

About the young Redeemer's head
What wonders and what glories meet!
An unknown star arose, and led
The eastern sages to his feet.

Simeon and Anna both conspire
The infant-Saviour to proclaim;
Inward they felt the sacred fire,
And blessed the babe, and owned his name.

Let Jews and Greeks blaspheme aloud,
And treat the holy child with scorn;
Our souls adore the eternal God
Who condescended to be born.

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