In the day, do the day's work.

The Natural Clock-work by the might One Wound up at first, and ever since have gone.

Our life's a flying shadow, God's the pole, The index pointing at Him is our soul; Death the horizon, when our sun is set, Which will through Christ a resurrection get.

Live ye, he says, I flee.

If o'er the dial glides a shade, redeem The time for lo! it passes like a dream; But if 'tis all a blank, then mark the loss Of hours unblest by shadows from the cross.

Give God thy heart, thy service, and thy gold; The day wears on, and time is waxing old. - Unattributed Author,