The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley

Omniscient God, whose eyelids try
The self-deceiving sons of men,
To Thee how shall I dare draw nigh,
A man of lips and heart unclean!
Thou know'st I mean not what I say,
Thou know'st I only seem to pray.

Doubtless Thou art of purer eyes
Than to behold iniquity;
And all my nature naked lies,
And all my thoughts appear to Thee;
No fig-leaves from Thy sight can hide
My filthiness of self and pride.

O my abominable heart!
Its secrets all to Thee are known;
The sin from which I cannot part,
The sin that claims me for its own;
Thou seest it all; my nature's shame;
Thou seest, what I should die to name.

The foul reproach I groan to bear,
And vainly struggle to get free:
Yet still I breathe a tainted air,
(Tainted, alas! by sin and me,)
And wish for wings to flee away,
And ever in the desert stay.

O that I had a cottage there
To lodge a poor wayfaring man!
Far from the world of noise and care,
Of grief, anxiety, and pain,
O, could I from my people roam,
And be where none but God could come!

Me as a bowl if now He turn,
To foreign climes with violence toss,
I would not for a moment mourn
My kindred, or my country's loss;
A voluntary exile, I
Would there consent to live and die.

O, might I have my one request,
My fond and foolish heart's desire,
And get me hence, and be at rest,
Into the deepest shades retire,
Be clean forgot, and out of mind!—
O, where shall I the desert find?

Can earth afford that secret place?
Long have I sought it out in vain,
And fled before the human face,
And dragg'd to distant worlds my chain;
Yet still I found the carnal mind,
I could not leave myself behind.

'Tis vain, I find, from self to flee
For rest, to earth's remotest bound:
The deep cries out, 'Tis not in me!
Happiness is not to be found,
Save only, Jesus, in Thy breast:
Thou art the soul's eternal rest.

But how shall I to Thee attain,
Thee, whom I sinfully pursue;
Unprofitable I, and vain!
Thy glory is not in my view:
What shall I say Thy grace to win?
My very prayer is turn'd to sin.

Nothing in me Thy grace can move,
A wretched man of sin I am;
But Thou art good, but Thou art love,
And Jesus is Thy healing name:
O, for Thy name and mercy's sake,
The sinner to Thy bosom take!

Do as Thou findest in Thy heart;
Reject me, Saviour, or receive;
Bid me from Thee to hell depart,
Or bid me come to Thee, and live:
I trust my soul to this alone,
Let all Thy will on me be done.

University of Virginia Library

ANOTHER.

[Omniscient God, whose eyelids try]