I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
107. |
108. |
109. |
110. |
111. |
112. |
113. |
114. |
115. |
116. |
117. |
118. |
119. |
120. |
121. |
122. |
123. |
124. |
125. |
126. |
127. |
128. |
129. |
130. |
131. |
132. |
133. |
134. |
135. |
136. |
137. |
138. |
139. |
140. |
141. |
142. |
143. |
144. |
145. |
146. |
147. |
148. |
149. |
150. |
151. |
152. |
153. |
154. |
155. |
156. |
157. |
158. |
159. |
160. |
161. |
162. |
163. |
164. |
165. |
166. |
167. |
168. |
169. |
170. |
171. |
172. |
173. |
174. |
175. |
176. |
177. |
178. |
179. |
180. |
181. |
182. |
183. |
184. |
185. |
186. |
187. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley | ||
70.
[A thousand secret checks within]
A thousand secret checks within,
To unacknowledged grace I owe;
A thousand times preserved from sin,
I now my kind Preserver know;
Thou didst support my yielding heart,
Thou didst to good my will incline;
And when I chose the better part,
The virtuous thought was all Divine.
To unacknowledged grace I owe;
A thousand times preserved from sin,
I now my kind Preserver know;
Thou didst support my yielding heart,
Thou didst to good my will incline;
And when I chose the better part,
The virtuous thought was all Divine.
22
I envied oft the swine their meat,
But none the husks of pleasure gave:
Oft by my bosom-sin beset,
Mercy contrived my soul to save:
The grace I trembled to receive,
Escaping from the broken snare;
And scarcely durst my heart believe
That mercy could redeem so far.
But none the husks of pleasure gave:
Oft by my bosom-sin beset,
Mercy contrived my soul to save:
The grace I trembled to receive,
Escaping from the broken snare;
And scarcely durst my heart believe
That mercy could redeem so far.
Still on a precipice I stand,
Or seem on solid waves to tread;
Secure in an Almighty hand,
When raging flames surround my head;
Nigh is my sin, but Thou art nigher,
And while to Thee my soul I give,
I hang in air, I walk in fire,
In death by miracle I live!
Or seem on solid waves to tread;
Secure in an Almighty hand,
When raging flames surround my head;
Nigh is my sin, but Thou art nigher,
And while to Thee my soul I give,
I hang in air, I walk in fire,
In death by miracle I live!
The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley | ||