But ne’er deride the claims of thy prevailing grace.
We were not; prayers from us arose not to thy ear;
Thy grace alone ’twas sought us out; thou drewest near.
Before the artist and his brush, the picture’s null;
Like unborn babe in mother’s womb, till time be full.
Before almighty power creation stands in wait,
As canvas ’fore the needle ’broiderer’s hand may mate.
A demon here, an angel there, or man, is bid
To be; now joy, now sorrow, rises up amid.300
We have no hand to move; defend ourselves we can’t.