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 blest,
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.