Are we but grains of sand,
Upon the beach of life,
With the ever moving,
Menace of destiny,
To snatch us from our strife.

Are we but corn in a field,
Lost in the summer heat,
With the ever present,
Harvest time,
To make us into wheat.

Are we but souls upon the earth,
Struggling for a worth,
With the ever looming,
Time of death,
To take away our birth.