The Church Clock

Oh, thou who dost these pointers see,
And hears't the chiming hour,
Say, do I tell the time to thee,
And tell thee nothing more;—
I bid thee mark life's little day
By stokes of duty done;—
A clock may stop at any time,
But time will travel on.

I am a preacher to a few,—
A servant unto all,
As here I stand tick, ticking,
like a death watch in a wall;
And, it were well that those who see
These fingers gliding on,
Should think a moment, now and then,
How fast the moments run.

There's some of you are wealthy,
And some of you are proud;
And some are poor, and some are sad,
And waiting for a shroud;—
Be patient yet a while, for see
This little yard below,—
The man who goes the longest way,
Has not so far to go.

A christening; then, a wedding comes;
And then, a passing bell;
'Tis just the ancient tale that time
Has always had to tell:
The very clock that marks the hour,
With ticking wears away;
The gladdest pulse of life contains
the music of decay.