LET all the world’s fair writers join To form a perfect book, If once compared, O Lord, to Thine, How weak their notions look!
Not the most careful rules they gave, Could gain one sin forgiven, Nor lead one step beyond the grave, Nor give one hope of Heaven.
We see an end to all we call ‘Perfection’ here below; How short the powers of nature fall, To God they cannot go!
In vain we boast perfection here, While sin defiles our years, And brings our virtues down so far, To sink in guilt and fears.
Our faith, our love, and every grace, Fall far below God’s Word; For perfect Truth and righteousness, Come only from the Lord.
Isaac Watts, 1674-1748