Behind my wandering steps, the busy hands

Behind my wandering steps, the busy hands
Of Time build up the moments into years,
And noiselessly, from these fast-dropping sands,
The temple of my mortal life he rears.
Alas! to me too surely it appears
A weak devoted structure, v.'hich commands
No prospect of continuance, and stands
On a most tottering base. But Thou these fears,
O God, canst turn to hopes, that when the frail
Tent of the spirit shrivels into dust.
One of the many mansions shall be mine,
Eternal in the Heavens. So through the vale
Of Life I go my way with lowly trust,
Contented heart, and will resigned to Thine!