In Indolent Vacuity Of Thought.

Built God A Church And Laughed His Word To Scorn.

E'er Since, By Faith, I Saw The Stream Thy Flowing Wounds Supply, Redeeming Love Has Been My Theme, And Shall Be Till I Die.

The Statesman, Lawyer, Merchant, Man Of Trade Pants For The Refuge Of Some Rural Shade, Where All His Long Anxieties Forgot Amid The Charms Of A Sequester'd Spot, Or Recollected Only To Gild O'er And Add A Smile To What Was Sweet Before, He May Possess The Joys He Thinks He Sees, Lay His Old Age Upon The Lap Of Ease, Improve The Remnant Of His Wasted Span. And Having Lived A Trifler, Die A Man.

He Is The Freeman Whom The Truth Makes Free, And All Are Slaves Besides.

Anticipated Rents, And Bills Unpaid, Force Many A Shining Youth Into The Shade, Not To Redeem His Time, But His Estate, And Play The Fool, But At The Cheaper Rate.