Jeremiah 9:1: Oh that my head were waters, and mine eyes, &c

I Want the weeping prophet's heart:
O might my Lord to me impart
That bleeding sympathy!
On me. Thou Man of Griefs, bestow
The spring of tears, the depth of woe,
The love that was in Thee.

I would our desolate Sion mourn
By vile intestine vipers torn,
By endless tempests toss'd,
A Babel of religious strife,
Buried in forms, whose power and life
Of godliness is lost.

Or if Thou hast a few restored.
Yet strangers to their bleeding Lord
The multitude remain.
Dead to a God they never knew.
People, and priests, and princes too
Are number'd with the slain.

For these I would in secret grieve,
Their burden all day long receive,
For these incessant pray,
And many a mournful vigil keep,
Water my couch with tears, and weep
My pensive life away.

Only regard my dying cries.
And bid the ruin'd Church arise
Which more than life I love,
Call all her sons out of their grave.
And this whole house of Israel save
To sing Thy praise above.