The wasted years, the wasted years,
No purpose firm, no contrite tears
Can ever bring to me again
The wasted years, the squandered grain.

The wasted years, the wasted years,
The source of looming, frowning fears,
Pursue me, threatening to bear
My foolish soul unto despair.

The wasted days, the wasted days,
A storm of dust along the ways,
Vain, devastating, venom-fraught,
The busy pursuance of naught;

The wasted hours, the wasted hours,
Of sinful thoughts and squander'd powers
The wasted moments millionfold,
The wasted dower of grace untold;

The certain death, the nearing doom
The crucifix dispels the gloom,
From wanhope and mistrust doth keep
The prodigal, the hundredth sheep.