Confession of our poverty, and saints the best
company; or, Good works profit men, not God.
Preserve me, Lord, in time of need
For succour to thy throne I flee,
But have no merits there to plead;
My goodness cannot reach to thee.
Oft have my heart and tongue confest
How empty and how poor I am;
My praise can never make thee blest,
Nor add new glories to thy name.
Yet, Lord, thy saints on earth may reap
Some profit by the good we do;
These are the company I keep,
These are the choicest friends I know.
Let others choose the sons of mirth
To give a relish to their wine,
I love the men of heavenly birth,
Whose thoughts and language are divine.