Our words are mere lies, all tergiversations.[236] Without the divine grace, they’re sheer delusions. Without grace of God, holy aid from His saints, Best “record” of man must be blots and complaints.[237] O God! Thy grace, sole, ’tis sustains us as men. Another to name with Thee suits not a pen. 340 To servants, sound judgment Thou’st kindly vouchsafed. This gift made the means, we’ve from error escaped. One drop from the sea of Thy knowledge, does us With omniscience, surely, make confluous. That drop have I gathered up in my soul’s trust. Do Thou save it, Lord, from lust’s soil and sin’s gust. Sin’s soil, oh! permit not that drop to absorb! Those gusts forbid Thou more to lessen its orb! True, Thou art All-Powerful, and Thy gracious will Could force them to yield it back, grace to fulfil. 345 A drop, lost in air, dispersed in the soil, Is still, through Thy providence, safe from despoil. Become it, or others, a nonentity, Thy beck can them summon to new entity. How many diverse still combine to form one. Thou givest the word, they part, each to its zone. Each moment, from naught fresh creations still come, In flocks and in crowds. ’Tis Thou makest them a home. Each night, in profound sleep our consciousness sinks; Becomes non-existent;--waves on seashore’s brinks. 350 When morning afresh dawns, they wake up anew, Like fish in the sea, plashing drops, falling dew. In autumn, the leaves see. They quit, then, the trees; Like scattered battalions, they fly with the breeze. The rook, in robes sable, as mourner acts, chief; In wood and field croaks for his much-deplored leaf. Command from Thee goes forth;--Thou, true Forest-King; Nonentity gives back each late stolen thing. O Death! Thou restorest, now, the whole prey of thine; The leaves, flowers, and fruits, in their due season shine. 355 Consider, my friend, in thyself; now, awhile, The spring and the autumn thou in thee seest smile. Look thou that thy heart be green, yield its good fruits Of righteousness, purity,--heaven’s best recruits. Through garlands of verdure thy rough branches hid; With bloom in profusion, hills, plains, all tumid.