The Blind Man's Petition

GREAT Saviour, born of David's race'
O look, with pity look this way!
A helpless wretch implores thy grace,
Implores thy mercy's healing ray!

Jesus, thou Lord of life divine,
To whom the sons of woe complain:
Is not unbounded mercy thine?
And can I ask, and ask in vain?

Did ever supplicating sigh
In vain to thee its grief impart?
Or mournful object meet thine eye,
That did not move thy melting heart?

Around thee crowd a plaintive throng,
I hear their importuning cries;
And now from every thankful tongue
I hear the glad Hosannah rise.

O look, with pity look on me,
Wrapt in the mournful shades of night!
My hope depends alone on thee,
Speak Lord, thy word shall give me light!

'Tis mercy, mercy I implore!
Speak, Lord, thy humble suppliant raise!
Then shall my heart thy grace adore;
Then shall my tongue resound thy praise.