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Built God a church and laughed His word to scorn.

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
Word
Church
Scorn
Laughed
Built

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No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar.
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Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
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Forced from home, and all its pleasures, afric coast I left forlorn to increase a stranger's treasures, o the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, paid my price in paltry gold but, though theirs they have enroll'd me, minds are never to be sold.
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God never meant that man should scale the Heavens By strides of human wisdom. In his works, Though wondrous, he commands us in his word To seek him rather where his mercy shines.
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The still small voice is wanted.
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Remorse begets reform.
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Poor England! thou art a devoted deer, Beset with every ill but that of fear. The nations hunt all mock thee for a prey They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at bay.
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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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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Habits are soon assumed but when we strive to strip them off, 'tis being flayed alive.
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Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.
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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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Folly ends where genuine hope begins.
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If a great man struggling with misfortunes is a noble object, a little man that despises them is no contemptible one.
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Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,- A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew.
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A fool must now and then be right, by chance
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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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Unless a love of virtue light the flame, Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame He hides behind a magisterial air He own offences, and strips others' bare.
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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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No one was ever scolded out of their sins.
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