Psalm 16 part 1 by Isaac Watts

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.

by Isaac Watts

Other poems by 'Isaac Watts'

Hymn 121

Hymn 122

Hymn 152

Hymn 153

Hymn 154

Hymn 155

Hymn 156

Hymn 157

Hymn 158

Hymn 159

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