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    "Hourglass" Lyrics

    Current 93

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    My life is measur'd by this glasse, this glass
    By all those little Sands that thorough passe
    See how they presse, see how they strive, which shall
    With greatest speed speed and greatest quicknesse fall
    See how they raise a little Mount, and then
    With their owne weight doe levell it agen.
    But then th'have all got thorough, they give o're
    Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more.
    Just such is man whose houres still forward run,
    Being almost finsht ere they are begun,
    So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we,
    That ere w'are ought at all, we cease to be.
    Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly,
    And while we sleep what do we else but die?
    How transient are our Joyes, how short their days!
    They creepe on towards us, but flie away
    How stinging are our sorrows! where they gaine
    But the least footing there they will remaine
    How groundless are our hopes, how they deceive
    Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!
    How real are our feares! they blast us still,
    Stil rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;
    How senseless are our wishes, yet how great!
    With that toile we pursue them with that sweat!
    Yet most times for our hurts so small we see,
    Like Children crying for some mercurie,
    This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
    Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed.
    This woves Virginity, yet knows not what
    Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state.
    Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold
    And yet how many have been choak'd with Gold?
    This onely hunts for honour yet whop shall
    Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall.
    This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought?
    With many a sleeplesse night and racking though?
    This needs will travel, yet how dangers lay
    Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?
    These triumph in their Beaty, though it shall
    Like a pluck't Rose or fading Little fall.
    Another hoasts strong armes, las Giants have
    by silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave.
    These ruffle in rich silke, though ne're so gay.
    A well plum'd Peacock is more gay thatn they.
    Poore man, what art! A Tennis ball of Errour,
    A ship of Glasse, toss'd in a Sea of terrour,
    Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe,
    Crauling in tears and mounting to the tombe,
    How slippery are thy pathes, how sure thy fall,
    How art thou Nothing when th'art most of all!
    This song was submitted on November 25th, 2005 and last modified on October 18th, 2016.
    Copyright with Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc..
    Written by Cedric Bixler, Tony Hajjar, Pablo Hinojos, Omar Rodriguez, Jim Ward.
    Lyrics licensed by LyricFind.

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