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,         5
Will sweeten every note and every word.
 
All earthly pomp or beauty to express
Is but to carve in snow, in waves to write;
Celestial things, though men conceive them less,
Yet fullest are they in themselves of light:         10
Such beams they yield as know no means to die,
Such heat they cast as lifts the spirit high.