The days of our years are three score years and ten.
It is soon cut off and they fly away.
The seventieth birthday is here and it is dreaded by all men.
Soon now our cares aside we will lay.

For You a million years is but an instant.
My life, all life is just one insignificant mirror shard of Your Image.
For You my time is your no time, all is constant.
You know that for us all truth and all past and future summers are just a desert mirage.

That maple tree before that I myself with bare hands I have planted.
Now it is in its first touch of delicate blooming growth.
Perhaps in one hundred years it will still stand glorious and scented.
I will long be in my grave but it too will wither and die, there is no other truth.

But we both will have come and gone, our lives no longer seen or read.
But perhaps we should be content, a little light and shade we too will have shed.