September 11

If thou wouldst have me speak, Lord, give me speech.

So many cries are uttered now-a-days,

That scarce a song, however clear and true,

Will thread the jostling tumult safe, and reach

The ears of men buz-filled with poor denays:

Barb thou my words with light, make my song new,

And men will hear, or when I sing or preach.