I am counted as grass,
The leaf on the bough,
the scattering of seeds,
The earth and the plow.
The Lord of our years
The siphon of time,
has counted out days,
Both yours and mine.
My fields has he set,
with a swiftness of flame,
ashes to ashes,
And nothing the same.
Is enough but a number,
the counting of days,
The Lord of the harvest
a man justly obeys.
The shell is now empty,
his skin but a rag,
I pass by the grave,
its marked by a flag.
The Lord of our years
a master of age,
Has doled out his judgment,
and given his wage.