My arms are weak with many gifts,
Undeserving poor and wretched man,
I am! Yet lavish grace on grace uplifts,
My soul though backward thrown askew,
Untwisted each dear day, adrift,
Upon a mercied treble gift:
Rich in company and stature,
Rich in books and little learnings,
Rich in food and all my needs are met,

May I praise you though the times
Are good, yet never cease to turn a rhyme,
When walked through darker clefts again.