Praise For The Fountain Opened. - Zechariah xiii.1.

There is a fountain filld with blood
Drawn from Emmanuels veins;
And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains.


The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day;
And there have I, as vile as he,
Washd all my sins away.


Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood
Shall never lose its power,
Till all the ransomd church of God
Be saved to sin no more.


Eer since, by faith, I saw the stream
Thy flowing wounds supply,
Redeeming love has been my theme,
And shall be till I die.


Then in a nobler, sweeter song,
Ill sing thy power to save;
When this poor lisping stammering tongue
Lies silent in the grave.


Lord, I believe thou hast prepared
(Unworthy though I be)
For me a blood-bought free reward,
A golden harp for me!


Tis strung, and tuned, for endless years,
And formd by power divine,
To sound in God the Fathers ears
No other name but thine.

William Cowper

William Cowper was an English poet and hymnodist known for his contributions to English literature and the Evangelical revival of the 18th century. He suffered from periods of severe depression and mental illness, which influenced much of his work. Despite his struggles, Cowper produced notable works including 'Olney Hymns' in collaboration with John Newton and 'The Task,' which gained considerable popularity. His poetry is often characterized by its introspective, religious, and sometimes melancholic themes.

William Cowper

On A Similar Occasion. For The Year 1792.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

An Epistle To Joseph Hill, Esq.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

Annus Memorabilis, 1789. Written In Commemoration Of His Majestys Happy Recovery.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

Welcome To The Table.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Tale, Founded On A Fact, Which Happened In January 1779.

Where Humber pours his rich commercial stream
There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blaspheme;
In subterraneous caves his life he led,
Black as the mine in which he wrought for bread.
When on a day, emerging from the deep,
A Sabbath-day (such Sabbaths thousands keep!),
The wages of his weekly toil he bore
To buy a cockwhose blood might win him more;
As if the noblest of the featherd kind
Were but for battle and for death designd;
As if the consecrated hours were meant
For sport, to minds on cruelty intent;
It chanced (such chances Providence obey)
He met a fellow-labourer on the way,
Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed;
But now the savage temper was reclaimd,
Persuasion on his lips had taken place;
For all plead well who plead the cause...

William Cowper

Praise For Faith.

Of all the gifts thine hand bestows,
Thou Giver of all good!
Not heaven itself a richer knows
Than my Redeemers blood.


Faith too, the blood-receiving grace,
From the same hand we gain;
Else, sweetly as it suits our case,
That gift had been in vain.


Till thou thy teaching power apply,
Our hearts refuse to see,
And weak, as a distemperd eye,
Shut out the view of thee.


Blind to the merits of thy Son,
What misery we endure!
Yet fly that hand from which alone
We could expect a cure.


We praise thee, and would praise thee more,
To thee our all we owe;
The precious Saviour, and the power
That makes him precious too.

William Cowper

Mourning And Longing.

The Saviour hides his face!
My spirit thirsts to prove
Renewd supplies of pardoning grace,
And never-fading love.


The favourd souls who know
What glories shine in him,
Pant for his presence as the roe
Pants for the living stream!


What trifles tease me now!
They swarm like summer flies,
They cleave to everything I do,
And swim before my eyes.


How dull the Sabbath-day,
Without the Sabbaths Lord!
How toilsome then to sing and pray,
And wait upon the word!


Of all the truths I hear,
How few delight my taste!
I glean a berry here and there,
But mourn the vintage past.


Yet let me (as I ought)
Still hope to be supplied;
No pleasure else is worth a thought,
Nor shall I be ...

William Cowper

A Living And A Dead Faith.

The Lord receives his highest praise
From humble minds and hearts sincere;
While all the loud professor says
Offends the righteous Judges ear.


To walk as children of the day,
To mark the precepts holy light,
To wage the warfare, watch, and pray,
Show who are pleasing in his sight.


Not words alone it cost the Lord,
To purchase pardon for his own;
Nor will a soul, by grace restored,
Return the Saviour words alone.


With golden bells, the priestly vest,
And rich pomegranates borderd round,^[1]
The need of holiness expressd,
And calld for fruit, as well as sound.


Easy, indeed, it were to reach
A mansion in the courts above,
If swelling words and fluent speech
Might serve, instead of faith...

William Cowper

My Soul Thirsteth For God.

I thirst, but not as once I did,
The vain delights of earth to share;
Thy wounds, Emmanuel, all forbid
That I should seek my pleasures there.


It was the sight of thy dear cross
First weand my soul from earthly things;
And taught me to esteem as dross
The mirth of fools and pomp of kings.


I want that grace that springs from thee,
That quickens all things where it flows,
And makes a wretched thorn like me
Bloom as the myrtle or the rose.


Dear fountain of delight unknown!
No longer sink below the brim;
But over flow, and pour me down
A living and life-giving stream!


For sure, of all the plants that share
The notice of thy Fathers eye,
None proves less grateful to his care,
Or yields him meaner fruit...

William Cowper

The Hidden Life.

To tell the Saviour all my wants,
How pleasing is the task!
Nor less to praise him when he grants
Beyond what I can ask.


My labouring spirit vainly seeks
To tell but half the joy;
With how much tenderness he speaks,
And helps me to reply.


Nor were it wise, nor should I choose,
Such secrets to declare;
Like precious wines, their tastes they lose,
Exposed to open air.


But this with boldness I proclaim,
Nor care if thousands hear,
Sweet is the ointment of his name,
Not life is half so dear.


And can you frown, my former friends,
Who knew what once I was;
And blame the song that thus commends
The Man who bore the cross?


Trust me, I draw the likeness true,
And not as fancy paints;

William Cowper