To thee what praises can I give,
Thou great Creator, Lord of all,
Whose goodness 'tis that man shall live,
Whose will it is that man shall fall.
Around where'er I cast mine eyes,
They pleas'd behold thy works divine;
My daily wants thy hand supplies--
Then, O! what praises, Lord, are thine,
Whose heav'nly light the soul can cheer,
When earthly sorrows on me press;
Whose voice is to the sinner dear,
And makes his pond'rous load seem less.
Since life, O Lord, is but a span,
And soon we mingle with the dust;
Since thine's the power, how blest is man
Who in such goodness puts his trust.
Why doth weak mortals weep at fate,
Why murmur at thy holy will;
Thy servant, whatsoe'er my state,
Teach me to be contended still.
Keep me from Vice and all her train,
Who seem forgetful of thy word;
Keep me from Pride and Grandeur vain,
And may each hour be thine, O Lord.
Forgive me if I chance to stray,
And let me to thy path return;
There guide me in thy holy way,
Till life's short taper cease to burn.
Robert Anderson
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hymn-written-sunday-february-11th-1798/
