My Soul, The Seas Are Rough, And

O Who Would Trust This World, Or Prize What's In It, That Gives And Takes, And Chops And Changes, Ev'ry Minute?

The Goods We Spend We Keep; And What We Save We Lose; And Only What We Lose We Have.

Scandal Breeds Hatred; Hatred Begets Division; Division Makes Faction, And Faction Brings Ruin.

It Is A Most Just Punishment, That Man Should Lose That Freedom, Which Man Could Not Use, Yet Had Power To Keep, If He Would; And That He Who Had Knowledge To Do What Was Right, And Did Not Should Be Deprived Of The Knowledge Of What Was Right; And That He Who Would Not Do Righteously, When He Had The Power, Should Lose The Power To Do It, When He Had The Will.

The Worldly Wisdom Of The Foolish Man Is Like A Sieve, That Does Alone Retain The Grosser Substance Of The Worthless Bran: But Thou, My Soul, Let Thy Brave Thoughts Disdain So Coarse A Purchase: O Be Thou A Fan To Purge The Chaff, And Keep The Winnow'd Grain: Make Clean Thy Thoughts, And Dress Thy Mixt Desires: Thou Art Heav'n's Tasker, And Thy God Requires The Purest Of Thy Flow'r, As Well As Of Thy Fires.