Mourning

When, gracious Lord, ah, tell me when
Shall I into myself retire?
To Thee discover all my pain,
And show my troubled heart's desire?

I long to pour out all my soul,
Sorrow, and sin's just weight to feel;
To smart till Thou hast made me whole,
To mourn till Thou hast said, " Be still."

Sick of desire, for Thee I cry,
And, weary of forbearing, groan:
Horror and sin are ever nigh,
My comfort and my God are gone.

Trembling in dread suspense I stand;
Sinking, and falling into sin,
Till Thou reach out Thy mighty hand,
And snatch me from this hell within.

Fain would I rise, and get me hence,
From every fond engagement free, —
Pleasure, and praise, and wealth, and sense,
And all that holds me back from Thee.

O that the mild and peaceful dove
Would lend his wings to aid my flight!
Soon would I then far off remove,
And hide me from this hateful light, —

Where none but the all-seeing eye
Could mark or interrupt my grief;
No human comforter be nigh,
To torture me with vain relief.

Far in some lonely, desert place,
For ever, ever would I sit,
Languish to see the Saviour's face,
And perish, weeping at His feet.

O, what is life without my God!
A burden more than I can bear:
I struggle to throw off the load,
Me from myself I strive to tear.

I ever gasp in Christ to live;
O that to me the grace were given!
Had I Thy heaven and earth to give,

'd buy Thee with Thy earth and heaven.

Let me — I know not how to pray;
My anguish cannot be exprest:
Jesu, Thou seest what I would say;
O, let Thy bowels speak the rest!