1 Dost thou my worthless name record,
Free of thy holy city, Lord?
Am I, a sinner, call'd to share
The precious privileges there?

2 Art thou my King, my Father styl'd?
Am I thy servant and child?
Whilst wretched millions draw their breath
In lands of ignorance and death.

3 Shall I receive this grace in vain?
Shall I my great vocation stain?
Away, ye works in darkness wrought!
Away each sensual, wanton though!

4 My soul, I charge thee to excel
In thinking right and acting well.
Deep let thy searching pow'rs engage,
Unbiass'd, in the sacred page.

5 Strong, and more strong, thy passions rule,
Advancing still in virtue's school;
Contending still, with noble strife,
To imitate thy Saviour's life.