Quote

E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream thy flowing wounds supply, redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die.

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
Wounds
Till
Saws
Redeeming
Shall
Flowing
Since
Stream
Dies
Supply
Faith
Streams
Love
Theme

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Heaven's harmony is universal love.
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Unmissed but by his dogs and by his groom.
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No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar.
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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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All we behold is miracle.
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The still small voice is wanted.
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Hast thou not learnd what thou art often told, A truth still sacred, and believed of old, That no success attends on spears and swords Unblest, and that the battle is the Lords?
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Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
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Transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.
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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.
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I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, for how could we do without sugar and rum?
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I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause.
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Defend me, therefore, common sense, say From reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up.
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Most satirists are indeed a public scourge Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse.
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A fool must now and then be right, by chance
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Learning itself, received into a mind By nature weak, or viciously inclined, Serves but to lead philosophers astray, Where children would with ease discern the way.
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But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought Of freedom, in that hope itself possess All that the contest calls for spirit, strength, The scorn of danger, and united hearts, The surest presage of the good they seek.
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What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.
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