And earthquake throes, engulfing all,
Make short and sure the way to death.
No peace, no safety, no enduring cheer,
To him who builds his hopes and treasures here.
Yet glad we hail each New Year’s morn;
For from the great high throne of Heaven
A royal fiat forth has gone,
A glorious word to earth is given:
Behold, says He who looks creation through,
Where sin has marred my works, I make anew.