Classic Poem

The man that lives must learn to die,
Christ will no longer stay.
Our time is short, death's near at hand
To take our lives away.

What are our lives that we must live
And what's our carcass then?
'Tis food for worms to feed upon,
Christ knows the time and when.

Our lives are like the grass, O Lord,
Like flowers in the field.
So welcome death, praise ye the Lord,
Willing I am to yield.

Now we must die and leave this world
Which we have lived in,
Nothing but our poor winding-sheet
To wrap our bodies in.

Happy the man that never swears
Against his living Lord,
And never took God's name in vain
At any trifling word.

When shall we see that happy heaven
That blessèd resting place
Where we like angels then shall feed
Upon God's royal grace.

The bitter plagues, the fiery hell
Where sinners they are slain,
His beast shall die, his sheep shall rot,
Cold clay shall be his grave.

Besides himself sickness shall have
No physic shall him cure,
We never shall live to see old age
Our lives shall not endure.