Oh how I love Thy holy Word, Thy gracious covenant, O Lord! It guides me in the peaceful way; I think upon it all the day. What are the mines of shining weal…

Hackney’d in business, wearied at… Which thousands, once fast chain’d… But which, when life at ebb runs w… All wish, or seem to wish, they co… The statesman, lawyer, merchant, m…

Bestow, dear Lord, upon our youth The gift of saving grace; And let the seed of sacred truth Fall in a fruitful place. Grace is a plant, where’er it grow…

Did Cytherea to the skies From this pellucid lymph arise? Or was it Cytherea’s touch, When bathing here, that made it su…

I am just two and two, I am warm,… And the parent of numbers that can… I am lawful, unlawful—a duty, a fa… I am often sold dear, good for not… An extraordinary boon, and a matte…

Reader! behold a monument That asks no sigh or tear, Though it perpetuate the event Of a great burial here.

My mother! if thou love me, name n… My noble birth! Sounding at every… My noble birth, thou kill’st me.… As to their only refuge, all from… Nature withholds all good besides;…

Heal us, Emmanuel! here we are, Waiting to feel Thy touch: Deep-wounded souls to Thee repair And, Saviour, we are such. Our faith is feeble, we confess,

To tell the Saviour all my wants, How pleasing is the task! Nor less to praise Him when He gr… Beyond what I can ask. My laboring spirit vainly seeks

John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A trainband captain eke was he Of famous London town. John Gilpin’s spouse said to her…

Here, free from riot’s hated noise… Be mine, ye calmer, purer joys, A book or friend bestows; Far from the storms that shake the… Contentment’s gale shall fan my se…

I will praise Thee every day Now Thine anger’s turn’d away; Comfortable thoughts arise From the bleeding sacrifice. Here, in the fair gospel-field,

Poets attempt the noblest task the… Praising the Author of all good i… And, next, commemorating Worthies… The dead in whom that good abounde… Thee, therefore, of commercial fam…

Say, ye apostate and profane, Wretches, who blush not to disdain Allegiance to your God,— Did e’er your idly wasted love Of virtue for her sake remove

My former hopes are fled, My terror now begins; I feel, alas! that I am dead In trespasses and sins. Ah, whither shall I fly?