There is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign,
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain.

(Isaac Watts (1674-1748), British hymn-writer. "There is a land of pure delight," l. 1-4, The Sacred Harp (1707).)

Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number,

(Isaac Watts (1674-1748), British hymn writer. The Sluggard (l. 6). . . Oxford Book of Light Verse, The. W. H. Auden, ed. (1938) Oxford University Press.)

Tis the voice of the Sluggard; I heard him complain,
"You have wak'd me too soon; I must slumber again."

(Isaac Watts (1674-1748), British hymn writer. The Sluggard (l. 1-2), Divine Songs for Children (1715). . . Oxford Book of Light Verse, The. W. H. Auden, ed. (1938) Oxford University Press.)

Be thou our guard while troubles last,
And our eternal home.

(Isaac Watts (1674-1748), British hymn writer. Our God, Our Help in Ages Past (l. 35-36). . . Norton Anthology of Poetry, The. Alexander W. Allison and others, eds. (3d ed., 1983) W. W. Norton & Company.)

For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.

(Isaac Watts (1674-1748), British hymn-writer. Against Idleness and Mischief, st. 3, Divine Songs for Children (1715). A similar thought was expressed in one of the Scottish Proverbs collected by John Ray in 1719; variations of the saying have been traced back as far as St Jerome (c. 342-420).)

Death, like an overflowing stream,
Sweeps us away: our life's a dream,...

(Isaac Watts (1674-1748), British hymn-writer. Published in The Sacred Harp (1991). "Death, like an overflowing stream," l. 1-2 (1709).)

From all that dwell below the skies
let the Creator's praise arise!
Let the Redeemer's name be sung
through every land, by every tongue!

(Isaac Watts (1674-1748), British hymn-writer. "From all that dwell," l. 1-4, Psalms of David (1719). Inspired by Psalm 117.)

Alas! and did my Saviour bleed,
And did my Sovereign die?
Would he devote that sacred Head
For such a worm as I?

(Isaac Watts (1674-1748), British hymn-writer. "Godly Sorrow Arising from the Sufferings of Christ ," l. 1-4 (1709).)

The busy tribes of flesh and blood,
With all their lives and cares,
Are carried downwards by thy flood,
And lost in following years.

Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away;
They fly forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.

(Isaac Watts (1674-1748), British hymn writer. Our God, Our Help in Ages Past (l. 21-28). . . Norton Anthology of Poetry, The. Alexander W. Allison and others, eds. (3d ed., 1983) W. W. Norton & Company.)

Our God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home;

(Isaac Watts (1674-1748), British poet. Our God, Our Help in Ages Past (l. 1-4). . . Norton Anthology of Poetry, The. Alexander W. Allison and others, eds. (3d ed., 1983) W. W. Norton & Company.)