Psalm XC. Fourth Book

Thro' all the changing Scenes, have past Over thy chosen Race; Thou, Lord, alone, from Age to Age, Hast been our dwelling Place. Before the Mountains, Earth, or World, Were formed by thy Nod; Thou Lord, from everlasting art, To everlasting, God. 'Tis thou, to Rottenness, and Dust, Dost turn weak mortal Man; For thou hast said, "Ye Adam's Sons, "Return to Earth again. And should he reach a Thousand Years, It would be, in thy Sight, But as a Day, that's past, and gone; Or a short Watch by Night. As with a Flood's most rapid Stream, Thou dost them sweep away; Like Dreams they vanish; in the Morn, As Grass, look fair, and gay: But howsoe'er it looks, away It's Morning Beauty flies; When Ev'ning comes, 'tis all cut down, It withereth up, and dies. We, by thine Anger, are consum'd; Thy Wrath does us afright. Thou set'st our Crimes, and secret Sins, All plain before thy Sight. Thence, all our Days, in thy hot Wrath, To speedy End are brought; We spend our Years, as quick as Speech, Swift as a Breath, or Thought. Our Days are Threescore Years and Ten; If Strength to Fourscore stay, 'Tis Grief, and Pain; we're soon cut off, And hence we fly away.