1 No more I ask or hope to find,
Delight or happiness below;
Sorrow may well possess the mind
That feeds where thorns and thistles grow.
2 The joy that fades is not for me,
I seek immortal joys above;
There, glory without end shall be
The bright reward of faith and love.
3 Cleave to the world ye sordid worms,
contented lick your native dust:
But God shall fight, with all his storms,
Against the idol of your trust.
The Hartford Selection of Hymns from the most approved authors, 1799