Confession of our poverty, and saints the best company; or, Good works profit men, not God.

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.