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 songs of mirth
To give a relish to their wine;
I love the men of heav’nly birth,
Whose thoughts and language are divine.
-Isaac Watts, Psalm 16, The Psalms of David, 1719.