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Poem	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.
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