No, I shall envy them no more Who grow profanely great, Though they increase their golden store, And rise to wondrous height. They taste of all the joys that grow Upon this earthly clod! Well, they may search the creature through, For they have ne'er seen God. Shake off the thoughts of dying too, And think your life your own; But death comes hast'ning on to you, To mow your glory down. Go now, and boast of all your stores, And tell how bright you shine; Your heaps of glitt'ring dust are yours, And my Redeemer's mine.