Saints, at your heav'nly Father's word Give up your comforts to the Lord; Behold how sinners disagree, The publican and Pharisee! One doth his righteousness proclaim, The other owns his guilt and shame.
This man at humble distance stands, And cries for grace with lifted hands That boldly rises near the throne, And talks of duties he has done.
The Lord their diff'rent language knows, And diff'rent answers he bestows; The humble soul with grace he crowns, Whilst on the proud his anger frowns.
Dear Father! let me never be Joined with the boasting Pharisee; I have no merits of my own But plead the suff'rings of thy Son.