Isaac Watts · 527 of 724

Hymn 19

Let others boast how strong they be, Nor death nor danger fear; But we'll confess, O Lord, to thee, What feeble things we are.

Fresh as the grass our bodies stand, And flourish bright and gay; A blasting wind sweeps o'er the land, And fades the grass away.

Our life contains a thousand springs, And dies if one be gone; Strange, that a harp of thousand strings Should keep in tune so long!

But 'tis our God supports our frame, The God that built us first: Salvation to th' Almighty name That reared us from the dust.

[He spoke, and straight our hearts and brains In all their motions rose; "Let blood," said he, "flow round the veins," And round the veins it flows.

While we have breath, or use our tongues, Our Maker we'll adore; His Spirit moves our heaving lungs, Or they would breathe no more.]