Fleetinglyness
The hay field has been cut and in my head I have the strains of music that I have sung several times in choirs, Music for the Funeral of Queen Mary by Henry Purcell (1659–1695). If I remember correctly, she died at the age of 32 from the plague. Summing it up in modern wording: keep the faith, baby.
Man that is born of a woman
hath but a short time to live,
and is full of misery.
He cometh up, and is cut down like a flow’r;
he flee’th as it were a shadow,
and ne’er continueth in one stay.
In the midst of life we are in death:
of whom may we seek for succour,
but of Thee, O Lord,
who for our sins are justly displeased?
Yet, O Lord most mighty,
O holy, and most merciful Saviour,
deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.
Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts;
shut not thy merciful ears unto our pray’rs;
but spare us, Lord most holy,
O God most mighty,
O holy and most merciful Saviour,
Thou most worthy Judge eternal,
Suffer us not at our last hour,
for any pains of death to fall away from Thee.
