Hymns on the Lord's Supper, 80

With pity, Lord, a sinner see,
Weary of Thy ways and Thee;
Forgive my fond despair
A blessing in the means to find,
My struggling to throw off the care,
And cast them all behind.

Long have I groan'd Thy grace to gain,
Suffer'd on, but all in vain:
An age of mournful years
I waited for Thy passing by,
And lost my prayers, my sighs, and tears,
And never found Thee nigh.

Thou wouldst not let me go away;
Still Thou forcest me to stay.
O might the secret power
Which will not with its captive part
Nail to the post of mercy's door
My poor unstable heart.

The nails that fix'd Thee to the tree,
Only they can fasten me:
The death Thou didst endure
For me let it effectual prove:
Thy love alone my soul can cure,
Thy dear expiring love.

Now in the means the grace impart,
Whisper peace into my heart;
Appear the Justifier
Of all who to Thy wounds would fly,
And let me have my one desire,
And see Thy face, and die.