Classic Poem

Christ, keep me from the self-survey
Of beauties all thine own;
If there is beauty let me pray,
And praise the Lord alone.

Pray — that I may the fiend withstand,
Where'er his serpents be:
Praise — that the Lord's almighty hand
Is manifest in me.

It is not so — my features are
Much meaner than the rest;
A glow-worm cannot be a star,
And I am plain at best.

Then come, my love, thy grace impart,
Great Saviour of mankind;
O come, and purify my heart,
And beautify my mind.

Then will I thy carnations nurse,
And cherish every rose;
And empty to the poor my purse,
Till grace to glory grows.