A treasure God doth to thy care confide,
A cause for gratitude, but none for pride.
If thou that precious talent misapply,
To spread the flood of infidelity,
To strew with flowers the paths which sinners tread,
To hide one treacherous snare by Satan spread,—
How blest, how great, compared to thee, the man
Whose life obscurely ends as it began,
To whose meek soul no knowledge ere was given
Save that—of all most high—that lifts the soul to Heaven.