The Glorious Lamp Of Heaven,

In Vain Our Labours Are, Whatsoe'er They Be, Unless God Gives The Benediction.

Our Present Tears Here, Not Our Present Laughter Are But The Handsells Of Our Joys Hereafter.

Lord, 'tis Thy Plenty-dropping Hand That Soils My Land, And Giv'st Me For My Bushel Sowne Twice Ten For One. All This, And Better, Thou Dost Send Me, To This End, That I Should Render, For My Part, A Thankful Heart.

But Ne'er The Rose Without The Thorn.

The Glorious Lamp Of Heaven, The Sun.