I preached as never sure to preach again,
And as a dying man to dying men.

I preached as never sure to preach again,
And as a dying man to dying men.

I met a preacher there I knew, and said,
Ill and overworked, how fare you in this scene?
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I met a preacher there I knew, and said,
Ill and overworked, how fare you in this scene?
Bravely! said he; for I of late have been
Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread.

For the preacher's merit or demerit,
It were to be wished that the flaws were fewer
In read more

For the preacher's merit or demerit,
It were to be wished that the flaws were fewer
In the earthen vessel, holding treasure,
But the main thing is, does it hold good measure
Heaven soon sets right all other matters!

Would I describe a preacher,
. . . .
I would express him simple, grave, sincere;
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Would I describe a preacher,
. . . .
I would express him simple, grave, sincere;
In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain,
And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste,
And natural in gesture; much impress'd
Himself, as conscious of his awful charge,
And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds
May feel it too; affectionate in look,
And tender in address, as well becomes
A messenger of grace to guilty men.

But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all.

But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all.

Hear how he clears the points o' Faith
Wi' rattling an' thumpin'!
Now meekly calm, now wild read more

Hear how he clears the points o' Faith
Wi' rattling an' thumpin'!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He's stampin', and he's jumpin'!

I venerate the man whose heart is warm,
Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life,
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I venerate the man whose heart is warm,
Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life,
Coincident, exhibit lucid proof
That he is honest in the sacred cause.

The priest he merry is, and blithe
Three-quarters of a year,
But oh! it cuts him like read more

The priest he merry is, and blithe
Three-quarters of a year,
But oh! it cuts him like a scythe
When tithing time draws near.

The things that mount the rostrum with a skip,
And then skip down again, pronounce a text,
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The things that mount the rostrum with a skip,
And then skip down again, pronounce a text,
Cry hem; and reading what they never wrote
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,
And with a well-bred whisper close the scene!