CXXXIV. The Possibility of dying this Year.

GOD of my Life, thy constant Care
With Blessings crowns each op'ning Year;
This guilty Life dost thou prolong,
And wake anew mine annual Song.

How many precious Souls are fled
To the vast Regions of the Dead,
Since from this Day the changing Sun
Thro' his last yearly Period run?

We yet survive; but who can say
Or thro' the Year, or Month, or Day,
I will retain this vital Breath;
Thus far at least in League with Death?

That Breath is thine, Eternal GOD;
'Tis thine to fix my Soul's Abode;
It holds its Life from thee alone,
On Earth, or in the World unknown.

To thee our Spirits we resign;
Make them and own them still as thine;
So shall they smile, secure from Fear,
Tho' Death should blast the rising Year.

Thy Children, eager to be gone,
Bid Time's impetuous Tide roll on,
And land them on that blooming Shore,
Where Years and Death are known no more.