| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| V. |
| 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 | ||