Indexes for The Sacred Harp, 1991 Edition

My days, my weeks, my months, my years,
Fly rapid as the whirling spheres,
Around the steady pole.
Time, like the tide, its motion keeps,
And I must launch through endless deeps,
Where endless ages roll.

The grave is near the cradle seen,
How swift the moments pass between,
And whisper as they fly.
Unthinking man, remember this,
Though fond of sublunary bliss,
That you must groan and die.

My soul, attend the solemn call,
Thine earthly tent must shortly fall,
And thou must take thy flight.
Beyond the vast expansive blue,
To sing above, as angels do,
Or sing in endless night.