Idolatry which tempts my every turn
What is the cure? What standard can I raise?
There is no hope for me if I can’t learn
To place in thee my hope and all my praise
Tis ye, who formed the world and made our home
Tis ye, whose praise alone we all must sing
Tis ye, who when humanity did roam
Took on our form and died to take death’s sting
And still we cannot praise thee as we ought
Our hearts, impure, will find another tune
Help us to claim the victory you bought
And sing our praise to thee who’s coming soon
In thee there is no shadow, turn, or bend
Our father, help us love thee ’till the end