A Song of Praise for good Success in honest Affairs

IS not the Hand of God in this:
Is not this End divine?
Lord of Success, Thee will I bless,
Who on my Paths do'st shine:
I Reap the Fruit of God's Design,
By Him it was foreseen;
He thought of this as well as I,
Or it had never been.

I Blindly guess'd, but he foreknew,
I wish'd, he did Command;
Wherefore I praise his careful Eye,
And his Unerring Hand:
The Bow is draw by feeble Arms,
Aim taken in the Dark,
A Providential Hand doth Guide
The Arrow to the Mark.

Except the Lord the City keep,
The Watchmen will be slain;
Except the Lord do build the House,
The Builder Builds in Vain:
Buildings are Babels, Cities Heaps,
When thou send'st Curse or Flame;
And labouring Heads that promise Fruit,
Oft bring forth Wind and Shame.

But thou hast Crown'd my Actions, Lord,
With good Success to day;
This Crown, together with my self
At thy blest Feet I lay:
Lord, who art pleas'd to prosper Me,
To bless me in my ways;
Prosper my weak endeavouring Heart,
Which Aimeth at thy Praise.