Indexes for The Sacred Harp, 1991 Edition

Death, like an overflowing stream,
Sweeps us away; our life’s a dream,
An empty tale, a morning flow’r,
Cut down and withered in an hour.
Our age to sev’nty years is set;
How short the time! How frail the state
And if to eighty we arrive,
We’d rather sigh and groan than live.

But oh 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, Oh Lord, how frail is man;
And kindly lengthen out the span,
Till a wise care of piety
Fit us to die and dwell with Thee.