Thou turnest man, O Lord, to dust, Of which he first was made, And when thou speak'st the word, 'return', 'Tis instantly obey'd. For in thy sight a thousand years Are like a day that's past, Or like a watch in dead of night, Whose hours unminded waste. Thou sweep'st us off as with a flood, We vanish hence like dreams; At first we grow like grass that feels The sun's reviving beams: But howsoever fresh and fair Its morning beauty shows, 'Tis all cut down and wither'd quite Before the evening close.