Let all the heath­en writ­ers join
To form one per­fect book;
Great God, if once co­mpared with Thine,
How mean their writ­ings look!

Not the most per­fect rules they gave
Could show one sin for­giv’n,
Nor lead a step beyond the grave;
But Thine con­duct to Heav’n.

I’ve seen an end to what we call
Perfection here be­low;
How short the pow­ers of na­ture fall,
And can no fur­ther go:

Yet men would fain be just with God
By works their hands have wrought;
But Thy com­mands, ex­ceed­ing broad,
Extend to ev­ery thought.

In vain we boast per­fect­ion here,
While sin de­files our frame,
And sinks our vir­tues down so far,
They scarce de­serve the name.

Our faith and love, and ev­ery grace
Fall far be­low Thy Word;
But per­fect truth and right­eous­ness
Dwell on­ly with the Lord.