William Cowper (1731–1800)

God gives his mercies to be spent;

Your hoard will do your soul no good:

Gold is a blessing only lent,

Repaid by giving others food.

The world’s esteem is but a bribe,

To buy their peace you sell your own;

The slave of a vain-glorious tribe,

Who hate you while they make you known.

The joy that vain amusements give,

Oh! sad conclusion that it brings!

The honey of a crowded hive,

Defended by a thousand stings.

’Tis thus the world rewards the fools

That live upon her treach’rous smiles;

She leads them, blindfold, by her rules,

And ruins all whom she beguiles.

God knows the thousands who go down

From pleasure, into endless woe;

And with a long despairing grone

Blaspheme their Maker as they go.

O fearful thought! be timely wise;

Delight but in a Saviour’s charms;

And God shall take you to the skies,

Embrac’d in everlasting arms.