by John Newton

“ What a mournful life is mine, Fill with crosses, pains and cares! Every work defiled with sin, Every step beset with snares! If alone I pensive fit, I myself can hardly bear; If I pass along the street, Sin and riot triumph there. ”

“ Though constrained to dwell a while Where the wicked strive and brawl; Let them frown; so he but smile, Heav'n will make amends for all. There, believers, we shall rest, Free from sorrow, sin and fears; Nothing there our peace molests, Through eternal rounds of years. ”