181 EXIT - traditional

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Death, like an overflowing stream,
Sweeps us away;
Our life's a dream,
An empty tale,
(fugue)
A morning flow'r,
Cut down and withered in an hour.

Our age to sev'nty years is set.
How short the time,
How frail the state;
(fugue)
And if to eighty we arrive,
We rather sigh and groan than live.