Thou know'st to practice as to preach!
The blessings of the contrite heart,
Thy bloodless conquests best proclaim;
The tears from sinners' eyes that start,
Are meetest records of thy fame.
The glory that may grace thy name
From loftier triumphs sure must spring;—
The grateful thoughts thy worth may claim,
Trophies like these can never bring!
Then, wherefore on this sainted spot,