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Poem	Imperfection of nature, and perfection of scripture. ver. 96, paraphrased. Let all the heathen writers join To form one perfect book; Great God! if once compared with thine, How mean their writings look! Not the most perfect rules they gave Could show one sin forgiv'n, Nor lead a step beyond the grave; But thine conduct to heav'n. I've seen an end to what we call Perfection here below; How short the powers of nature fall, And can no further go! Yet men would fain be just with God By works their hands have wrought; But thy commands, exceeding broad, Extend to every thought. In vain we boast perfection here, While sin defiles our frame, And sinks our virtues down so far, They scarce deserve the name. Our faith, and love, and every grace, Fall far below thy word; But perfect truth and righteousness Dwell only with the Lord.
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