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On which their fancied pleasures hang;
Others pant for fame or glory,
Or mad ambition leads them on,
Till, giddy with the height, they fall,
And grasping then for kind support,
Find, too late, they 've grasp'd a phantom.
Should I go with the multitude,
To thine own temple, gracious Lord,
Where shall I turn mine eye to find,
Among the number gather'd there,
One human being that is pure—
One that's unspotted from the world,
Or one that does in semblance bear
The bright image of his Saviour?
How manifold are the great works
Of thy omniscient hand, O Lord!
And man only is imperfect.
Endow'd by thee with reason's light,
Of ev'ry earthly good possest;
Yet his own passions war within,
And the enticements of the world,
Pride, vanity, and worldliness,
Others pant for fame or glory,
Or mad ambition leads them on,
Till, giddy with the height, they fall,
And grasping then for kind support,
Find, too late, they 've grasp'd a phantom.
Should I go with the multitude,
To thine own temple, gracious Lord,
Where shall I turn mine eye to find,
Among the number gather'd there,
One human being that is pure—
One that's unspotted from the world,
Or one that does in semblance bear
The bright image of his Saviour?
How manifold are the great works
Of thy omniscient hand, O Lord!
And man only is imperfect.
Endow'd by thee with reason's light,
Of ev'ry earthly good possest;
Yet his own passions war within,
And the enticements of the world,
Pride, vanity, and worldliness,
