Quote

How happy it is to believe, with a steadfast assurance, that our petitions are heard even while we are making them and how delightful to meet with a proof of it in the effectual and actual grant of them.

William Cowper

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William Cowper
Age: 68 †
Born: 1731
Born: November 26
Died: 1800
Died: April 25
Hymnwriter
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Translator
Writer
Berkhamsted
Hertfordshire
Proof
Effectual
Meet
Petitions
Prayer
Steadfast
Heard
Grant
Happy
Assurance
Making
Delightful
Even
Grants
Believe
Actual

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Unmissed but by his dogs and by his groom.
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Not to understand a treasure's worth till time has stole away the slighted good, is cause of half the poverty we feel, and makes the world the wilderness it is.
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How much a dunce that has been sent to roam, excels a dunce that has been kept at home.
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Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound.
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Ceremony leads her bigots forth, prepared to fight for shadows of no worth. While truths, on which eternal things depend, can hardly find a single friend.
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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust Him for His grace Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
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God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.
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The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.
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Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
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A fool must now and then be right, by chance
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There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart he does not feel for man.
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The fall of waters and the song of birds, And hills that echo to the distant berds, Are luxuries excelling all the glare The world can boast, and her chief favorites share.
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The Cross! There, and there only (though the deist rave, and the atheist, if Earth bears so base a slave) There and there only, is the power to save.
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Existence is a strange bargain. Life owes us little we owe it everything. The only true happiness comes from squandering ourselves for a purpose.
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My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
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How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at interval upon the ear In cadence sweet now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Memory slept.
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But poverty, with most who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe The effect of laziness, or sottish write.
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A story, in which native humour reigns, Is often useful, always entertains A graver fact, enlisted on your side, May furnish illustration, well applied But sedentary weavers of long tales Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.
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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hourThe bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow’r. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.
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