Last year's self is lost like vapour,
In seconds I am not the same,
What shall I do, my footing paper,
Am I built up or down by time,
The trees are taller than last year,
The sky is gone and shuffled new,
The mud is slipped, the grass is clear,
What shall I do, what shall I do?
A calling on the wind it comes,
Unchanging, sweeter morning dew,
Great melody for which all things run,
What blessed tune, what blessed tune!

It's Him, He's here, the Ground of Old,
He remembers me, all the stories told.