The Time Draws Nigh, My Soul

The time draws near

my soul

when thou

Thy last ac­count must give:

When thy whole life shall be sur­veyed

By Him who bid thee live.

How ma­ny ta­lents

O my God

Hast Thou be­stowed on me?

But yet how lit­tle can be found

That I have done for Thee?

My health

my time

my world­ly store

And Thy more pre­cious Word

Thy ta­lents are; for these must I

Account to Thee

my Lord.

Much of my time

al­as! I’ve lost

And much have I mis­spent;

How care­less of my grand con­cerns

On tri­fles how in­tent?

How lit­tle good have I re­ceived?

How lit­tle have I done?

How oft my feet have trod the paths

I know I ought to shun?

Pity my weak­ness

gra­cious God

My sins thro’ Christ for­give;

Teach me hence­forth not to my­self

But un­to Thee to live.

O may the sloth­ful serv­ant’s doom

My ho­ly care ex­cite:

Each ta­lent may I well im­prove

And in Thy work de­light.

Then like a faith­ful stew­ard I

Shall stand be­fore Thy seat;

Let me but hear

Well done

at last

My bliss will be com­plete.