Adored by the acclaiming crowd,
He falls a man, and not a god!
He falls (no sooner deified
Than smote) a sacrifice to pride,
Anticipates the final hour,
And worms their fellow worm devour.
The man who praise from man receives,
Nor to his God the glory gives,
In him the just reward we see
Of sacrilegious vanity;
And all which nature called her own
We now refer to God alone.
But chiefly, Lord, the gifts of grace
To Thy sole glory we confess,
Afraid to rob Thee of Thy right,
And arrogate with vain delight,
Or take the homage of the throng
Which only doth to Thee belong.
Whoe’er, like Lucifer, aspire,
And suffer men their grace t’admire,
Most humbled, when exalted most,
Of Christ alone we make our boast,
And own (if we perfection name)
Perfection is with Christ the same.