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| XIII. |
 | The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley |  |
CLXVII. FOR A TENDER CONSCIENCE.
Almighty God of truth and love,
In me Thy power exert,
The mountain from my soul remove,
The hardness from my heart:
My most obdurate heart subdue,
In honour of Thy Son,
And now the gracious wonder show,
And take away the stone.
In me Thy power exert,
The mountain from my soul remove,
The hardness from my heart:
My most obdurate heart subdue,
In honour of Thy Son,
And now the gracious wonder show,
And take away the stone.
I want a principle within,
Of jealous, godly fear,
A sensibility of sin,
A pain to feel it near:
I want the first approach to feel
Of pride, or fond desire,
To catch the wanderings of my will,
And quench the kindling fire.
Of jealous, godly fear,
A sensibility of sin,
A pain to feel it near:
I want the first approach to feel
Of pride, or fond desire,
To catch the wanderings of my will,
And quench the kindling fire.
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From Thee that I no more may part,
No more Thy goodness grieve,
The filial awe, the fleshly heart,
The tender conscience give,
Quick as the apple of an eye,
O God, my conscience make:
Awake my soul, when sin is nigh,
And keep it still awake.
No more Thy goodness grieve,
The filial awe, the fleshly heart,
The tender conscience give,
Quick as the apple of an eye,
O God, my conscience make:
Awake my soul, when sin is nigh,
And keep it still awake.
If to the right, or left I stray,
That moment, Lord, reprove,
And let me weep my life away
For having grieved Thy love:
Give me to feel an idle thought
As actual wickedness,
And mourn for the minutest fault
In exquisite distress.
That moment, Lord, reprove,
And let me weep my life away
For having grieved Thy love:
Give me to feel an idle thought
As actual wickedness,
And mourn for the minutest fault
In exquisite distress.
O may the least omission pain
My well instructed soul,
And drive me to the blood again,
Which makes the wounded whole:
More of this tender spirit, more
Of this affliction send,
And spread the moral sense all o'er,
Till pain with life shall end.
My well instructed soul,
And drive me to the blood again,
Which makes the wounded whole:
More of this tender spirit, more
Of this affliction send,
And spread the moral sense all o'er,
Till pain with life shall end.
| The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley | |