Quote

Trials make the promise sweet, Trials give new life to prayer Trials bring me to His feet, Lay me low, and keep me there.

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
Giving
Lows
Make
Promise
Life
Sweet
Feet
Bring
Prayer
Keep
Trials
Give
Lays

More quotes by William Cowper

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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
William Cowper
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Come, evening, once again, season of peace Return, sweet evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step, slow moving, while the night Treads on thy sweeping train one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day.
William Cowper
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Blest be the art that can immortalize.
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To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think.
William Cowper
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Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name, But England's Milton equals both in fame.
William Cowper
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Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys: Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours.
William Cowper
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There is mercy in every place. And mercy, encouraging thought gives even affliction a grace and reconciles man to his lot.
William Cowper
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Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oftenest in what least we dread Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow.
William Cowper
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No traveler e'er reached that blest abode who found not thorns and briers in his road.
William Cowper
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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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What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
William Cowper
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
William Cowper
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Even in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothes the rich possessor much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Or nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates.
William Cowper
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Great offices will have great talents.
William Cowper
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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.
William Cowper
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A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.
William Cowper
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We bear our shades about us self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree.
William Cowper
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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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Strength may wield the ponderous spade, May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought, the creature of a polished mind.
William Cowper
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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
William Cowper