Isaac Watts, 1674-1748
Preserve me, Lord, in time of need,|
For succor to thy throne I flee,
But have no merits there to plead:
My goodness cannot reach to thee.
2. Oft have my heart and tongue confessed
3. Yet, Lord, thy saints on earth may reap|
Some profit by the good we do;
These are the company I keep,
These are the choicest friends I know.
4. Let others choose the sons of mirth
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