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Augustus Montague Toplady

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Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to thy Cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for Dress,
Helpless, look to Thee for grace;
Vile, I to the fountain fly,
Wash me, Saviour, or I die!
--
The last lines of this stanza are also reported as: "Foul, I to the fountain fly : Wash me, Saviour, or I die!"

 
Augustus Montague Toplady

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Other refuge have I none;
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;
Leave, ah, leave me not alone,
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All my trust on Thee is stayed,
All my help from Thee I bring;
Cover my defenseless head
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Haste thee on from grace to glory,
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How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
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I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
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Suppose that men kill thee, cut thee in pieces, curse thee. What then can these things do to prevent thy mind from remaining pure, wise, sober, just? For instance, if a man should stand by a limpid pure spring, and curse it, the spring never ceases sending up potable water; and if he should cast clay into it or filth, it will speedily disperse them and wash them out, and will not be at all polluted. How then shalt thou possess a perpetual fountain? By forming thyself hourly to freedom conjoined with contentment, simplicity and modesty.

 
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Blest is my lot whate'er befall;
What can disturb me, who appall,
While, as my strength, my rock, my all,
Saviour! I cling to Thee?

 
Charlotte Elliott
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