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Millennium The night falls, heavy with the coming storm! Far out, the ocean frets against the bar, And the cloud-legions, gathering force and form Shut, with closed ranks, all gleam of moon or star. Tempestuous darkness! and unto the dawn, Long hours. Ah! Ina Coolbrith		Wednesday Sep 17, 2025
		Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969

About Isaac Watts

	Isaac Watts
	Isaac Watts (July 17, 1674 - November 25, 1748) is recognised as the "Father of English Hymnody", as he was the first prolific and popular English hymnwriter, credited with some 750 hymns. Many of his hymns remain in active use today and have been translated into many languages. Read More

Popular Isaac Watts Quotes

Do not hover always on the surface of things, nor take up suddenly, with mere appearances; but penetrate into the depth of matters, as far as your time and circumstances allow, especially in those things which relate to your profession.

Do not expect to arrive at certainty in every subject which you pursue. There are a hundred things wherein we mortals ... must be content with probability, where our best light and reasoning will reach no farther.

Earth, thou great footstool of our God, who reigns on high; thou fruitful source of all our raiment, life, and food; our house, our parent, and our nurse.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For God hath made them so; Let bears and lions growl and fight, For 't is their nature too.

Fly, like a youthful hart or roe, Over the hills where spices grow.

And while the lamp holds out to burn, The vilest sinner may return.

To prevent and suppress rising resentment is wise and glorious, is manly and divine.

From all who dwell below the skies Let the Creator's praise arise; Let the Redeemer's name be sung Through every land, by every tongue.

So, when a raging fever burns, We shift from side to side by turns; And 't is a poor relief we gain To change the place, but keep the pain.

Lord, in the morning thou shalt hear My voice ascending high.

For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do.

Were I so tall to reach the pole, Or grasp the ocean with my span, I must be measured by my soul: The mind 's the standard of the man.

And he that does one fault at first And lies to hide it, makes it two.

Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber! Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.

I have been there, and still would go; 'T is like a little heaven below.

'T is the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, 'You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again.'

Kind words toward those you daily meet, Kind words and actions right, Will make this life of ours most sweet, Turn darkness into night.

The tall, the wise, the reverend head Must lie as low as ours.

There is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign; Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain.

Strange that a harp of thousand strings Should keep in tune so long!

Whene'er I take my walks abroad, How many poor I see! What shall I render to my God For all his gifts to me?

To God the Father, God the Son, And God the Spirit, Three in One, Be honour, praise, and glory given By all on earth, and all in heaven.

Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound.

A flower, when offered in the bud, Is no vain sacrifice.

In books, or work, or healthful play.

Birds in their little nests agree; And 'tis a shameful sight When children of one family Fall out, and chide, and fight.

When I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies, I'll bid farewell to every fear, And wipe my weeping eyes.

We shall be strong to run the race, And climb the upper sky.

To be angry about trifles is mean and childish; to rage and be furious is brutish; and to maintain perpetual wrath is akin to the practice and temper of devils; but to prevent and suppress rising resentment is wise and glorious, is manly and divine.

But, children, you should never let Such angry passions rise; Your little hands were never made To tear each other's eyes.

How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower!

Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day.

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