Classic Poem

Thou , Lord, my Witness art,
I am not proud of heart,
Nor look with lofty eyes,
None envy, nor despise,
Nor to vain pomp apply
My thoughts, nor soar too high;
But in behaviour mild,
And, as a tender child.
Wean'd from his mother's breast,
On Thee alone I rest.
O Israel, adore
The Lord for evermore:
Be He the only scope
Of thy unfainting hope.