The Waste of Time

"The dull, defective!" 'tis too faint a name,
For vile ingratitude, for guilt, and shame! —
Such is my conduct, when I waste away
In trifles, or in indolence, a day.
Each future minute is beyond my power:
Can India's mines procure a single hour?
O much-neglected time, thy worth how high?
Not thy least particle, the world can buy.
When heaven bestows this boon, it bids employ,
(O blest command!) in seeking endless joy.
And shall my thoughtless heart, ungrateful, waste
The present hour, as I have done the past?
Forbid it, gracious God! O let my soul
Obey reflection's strict, but kind control;
And humbly bend before that awful eye,
Which marks my squander'd minutes as they fly;
With deep contrition bend, and ardent pray—
That love may turn his angry frown away:
Indulgent love, through that atoning blood.
In which alone I can approach to God.

To thee, great Advocate, to thee I fly,
And on thy righteousness alone rely.
O may thy spirit cleanse this guilty heart,
My pardon seal, and strength divine impart;
And may my hours, if future hours are lent,
To nobler, higher purposes be spent.