To music bent, is my retired mind

To music bent, is my retired mind,
And fain would I some song of pleasure sing;
But in vain joys no comfort now I find,
From heavenly thoughts, all true delight doth spring
Thy power, O God, Thy mercies, to record,
Will sweeten every note and every word.

All earthly pomp or beauty to express,
Is but to carve in snow, on waves to write;
Celestial things, though men conceive them less,
Yet fullest are they in themselves of light:
Such beams they yield as know no means to die,
Such heat they cast as lifts the spirit high.