Look, Christian, on thy Bible, and that glass br That sheds its sand through minutes, hours, and days, br And years; it speaks not, yet, methinks, it says, br To every human heart: so mortals pass br On to their dark and silent grave! Alas br For man! an exile upon earth he strays, br Weary, and wandering through benighted ways; br To-day in strength, to-morrow like the grass br That withers at his feet!--Lift up thy head, br Poor pilgrim, toiling in this vale of tears; br That book declares whose blood for thee was shed, br Who died to give thee life; and though thy years br Pass like a shade, pointing to thy death-bed, br Out of the deep thy cry an angel hears, br And by his guiding hand thy steps to heaven are led!br br William Lisle Bowlesbr br