The moon has but a borrowed light,

A faint and feeble ray;

She owes her beauty to the night,

And hides herself by day.

No cheering warmth her beam conveys,

Though pleasing to behold;

We might upon her brightness gaze

Till we were starved with cold.

Just such is all the light to man

Which reason can impart;

It cannot show one object plain,

Nor warm the frozen heart.

Thus moonlight views of truths divine

To many fatal prove;

For what avail in gifts to shine,

Without a spark of love?

The gospel, like the sun at noon,

Affords a glorious light;

Then fallen reason’s boasted moon

Appears no longer bright.

And grace, not light alone, bestows,

But adds a quick’ing pow’r;

The desert blossoms like the rose,

And sin prevails no more.