Confession of our poverty.
Preserve me, Lord, in time of need,
For succor to thy throne I flee,
But have no merits there to plead:
My goodness cannot reach to thee.
Oft have my heart and tongue confessed
How empty and how poor I am;
My praise can never make thee blessed,
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 heav'nly birth,
Whose thoughts and language are divine.
Psalm 16 Part 1
Isaac Watts
(1)
Poem topics: birth, heart, never, poor, poverty, time, earth, tongue, good, language, reach, divine, company, preserve, choose, love, I love you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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