1 Preserve me, Lord, in Time of Need,
For Succour to thy Throne I flee;
But have no Merits there to plead,
My Goodness cannot reach to Thee.

2 Oft have my Heart and Tongue confest,
How empty and how poor I am;
My Praise can never make thee blest,
Nor add new Glories to thy Name.

3 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.

4 Let others chuse 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