The Things Which Are Impossible with Men Are Possible to God

What a mystery am I,
A mystery of sin,
Full of all iniquity,
Unholy and unclean!
Every thought of all our hearts
Only evil always is;
Now I know my inward parts
Are very wickedness.

Stripp'd of every boasted grace,
Of every show of good,
Still I am but what I was,
Unchanged and unrenew'd.
Dust and ashes is my name;
Sinful dust and ashes, I,
Bearing all my sin and shame,
At Jesu's feet I lie.

From a thing like me unclean,
A clean and holy thing
Who of all the sons of men
Can ever hope to bring?
All our strife at last must cease,
All our strength and wisdom fail;
Such a work we must confess
With man impossible.

But shall human weakness dare
To limit strength Divine;
Teach almighty Wisdom where
To lay the measuring line?
Yes; we give our God the lie,
Trample on the' all-cleansing blood;
From all sin to save, we cry,
This is too hard for God.

Still we listen to our foe,
His other gospel hear:
"No perfection is below;
No love that casts out fear:
Fear and sin must still remain,
Still in you maintain their seat;
Sin sometimes will always reign,
And force you to submit."

Soon as Satan gives the word,
His advocates for sin
Witness with their lying lord, —
"Ye never can be clean
From all sin, while here below;
Do not you the word receive;
God's own word may tell you so,
But do not you believe!"

Flesh and blood cry out amain:
"It cannot, cannot be!
All my faith and hope is vain,
From sin to be set free;
I with only evil fraught,
Full of desperate wickedness,
I who sin in every thought,
Can I from sinning cease?"

World, and sin, and Satan, go
And ask my faithful Lord;
Surely I the truth shall know,
For He hath spoke the word:
Whether every perfect one
Shall not as his Master be,
Thou shalt shortly make it known,
Shalt answer, Lord, for me.