 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
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| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
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| CXL. |
| CXLI. |
| CXLII. |
| CXLIII. |
| CXLIV. |
| CXLV. |
| CXLVI. |
| CXLVII. |
| CXLVIII. |
| CXLIX. |
| CL. |
| CLI. |
| CLII. |
| CLIII. |
| CLIV. |
| CLV. |
| CLVI. |
| CLVII. |
| CLVIII. |
| CLIX. |
| CLX. |
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| CLXVI. |
| CLXVII. |
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| CLXXI. |
| CLXXII. |
| CLXXIII. |
| CLXXIV. |
| CLXXV. |
| CLXXVI. |
| CLXXVII. |
| CLXXVIII. |
| CLXXIX. |
| CLXXX. |
| CLXXXI. |
| CLXXXII. |
| CLXXXIII. |
| CLXXXIV. |
| CLXXXV. |
| CLXXXVI. |
| CLXXXVII. |
| CLXXXVIII. |
| CLXXXIX. |
| CXC. |
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| CCXLVI. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
 | The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley |  |
1303.
[I want the weeping prophet's heart]
Oh that my head were waters, and mine eyes, &c.
—ix. 1.
I want the weeping prophet's heart:
O might my Lord to me impart
That bleeding sympathy!
On me, Thou Man of Griefs, bestow
The spring of tears, the depth of woe,
The love that was in Thee.
O might my Lord to me impart
That bleeding sympathy!
On me, Thou Man of Griefs, bestow
The spring of tears, the depth of woe,
The love that was in Thee.
I would our desolate Sion mourn
By vile intestine vipers torn,
By endless tempests toss'd,
A Babel of religious strife,
Buried in forms, whose power and life
Of godliness is lost.
By vile intestine vipers torn,
By endless tempests toss'd,
A Babel of religious strife,
Buried in forms, whose power and life
Of godliness is lost.
Or if Thou hast a few restored,
Yet strangers to their bleeding Lord
The multitude remain,
Dead to a God they never knew,
People, and priests, and princes too
Yet strangers to their bleeding Lord
The multitude remain,
Dead to a God they never knew,
People, and priests, and princes too
19
For these I would in secret grieve,
Their burden all day long receive,
For these incessant pray,
And many a mournful vigil keep,
Water my couch with tears, and weep
My pensive life away.
Their burden all day long receive,
For these incessant pray,
And many a mournful vigil keep,
Water my couch with tears, and weep
My pensive life away.
Only regard my dying cries,
And bid the ruin'd Church arise
Which more than life I love,
Call all her sons out of their grave,
And this whole house of Israel save
To sing Thy praise above.
And bid the ruin'd Church arise
Which more than life I love,
Call all her sons out of their grave,
And this whole house of Israel save
To sing Thy praise above.
| The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley | |