English poem
August 1. The 4th day
by Philip Pain
How often should we think of this, that we Must ere long yield to Death's supremacie? The time ere long will come, when we shall be No more; and shortly we no time shall see. O that I might be then prepar'd for this So great a Charge, and be received to Bliss.
The sons of men are prone to forget Death, And put it same away from them, till breath Begins to tell them they must to the grave; And then, Oh what would they give but to have One year of respite? Help me Lord, to know As I move here, so my time moves also.
Whilst we live here, we have he blessed voice Of God by Ministers, the blessed noise And sound of Aarons Bells: the time will be When we no more of this shall hear or see. Help, Lord, that I may then improve the same Unto the praise and glory of thy Name.
The time will be, when we shall be No more: Where will the World be then? 'Twill be No more. Where will our Comforts be? They'll be No more. Where will our Friends be then? They'll be No more. Lord, grant me then thy grace, lest that No more Do seize upon me, and I be No more.
No More! O solemn sound! This night I may Be struck by Death, and never see the day.