LXVIII. THE SAME. FOR A BACKSLIDER IN DESPAIR.
Hymn 8.
See, Lord, with tenderest pity see
A wandering sheep, cut off from Thee,
And from Thy people driven,
A fallen soul that did run well;
Arrest her on the brink of hell,
And snatch her up to heaven.
Her to the throne of grace we bear,
And strive, in agony of prayer,
To tear her from the foe:
Break, Jesu, break the lion's teeth,
And pluck her from the toils of death,
And let the captive go.
Is she so near the burning lake,
That Thou no more canst bring her back,
Canst ransom her no more?
Nay, but Thou able art to save
A soul within the gaping grave,
And bid the deep restore.
Stir up, O Lord, Thine utmost power,
And pluck her in this gracious hour
Out of the fowler's snare,
Command the' accuser to depart,
And kill the worm that gnaws her heart,
The viper of despair.
For her the plaintive turtle moans,
For her the pleading Spirit groans,
And lo! Thy saints agree
Touching this thing, in faith to claim
A pardon, Jesus, in Thy name,
A pardon full and free.
Canst Thou reject Thy Spirit's cry?
Canst Thou Thy bride, Thyself deny?
Nay, but Thou shalt not rest,
No, never will we let Thee go,
Till she again Thy mercy know,
And sink upon Thy breast.
Extend Thine arms, and take her in,
A weary fugitive from sin,
To show Thy utmost power,
Now, Lord, from Satan's bond release,
And freely give her back her peace,
And bid her sin no more.
