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But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply.

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
Deign
Pilate
Twas
Reply
Question
Truth

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Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
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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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No one was ever scolded out of their sins.
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And diff'ring judgments serve but to declare that truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.
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Stamps God's own name upon a lie just made, To turn a penny in the way of trade.
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But animated nature sweeter still, to soothe and satisfy the human ear.
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To see the Law by Christ fulfilled, And hear His pardoning voice Changes a slave into a child, And duty into choice.
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For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not?
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The proud are ever most provoked by pride.
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A life all turbulence and noise may seem To him that leads it wise and to be praised, But wisdom is a pearl with most success Sought in still waters.
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The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.
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The Spirit breathes upon the Word and brings the truth to sight.
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I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
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They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade. Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind Cultured and capable of sober thought.
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Some people are more nice than wise.
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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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Th' embroid'ry of poetic dreams.
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The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
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Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceeds A stream of liberal and heroic deeds The swell of pity, not to be confined Within the scanty limits of the mind.
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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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