Assyria can't save us. We won't ride on horses; Neither will we say any more to the work of our hands, 'Our gods!' For in you the fatherless finds mercy."
"Nothing in my hand I bring: Simply to thy cross I cling; Naked, come to thee for dress; Helpless, look to thee for grace; Foul, I to the fountain fly; Wash me Savior, or I die."
