The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley

Is there a frailty of the saints
I cannot call my own?
Partaker in their sad complaints,
I answer groan for groan.
Tortured like them with doubt and fear,
Out of this deep I cry;
And lest I should not persevere
Their daily death I die.

While toss'd about with every wind
And carried to and fro,
The turns of their unsettled mind
Too sensibly I know;
Helpless (I often feel) and weak,
As new-born babes they are,
So feeble that they cannot speak
One word to God in prayer.

Tempted by their besetting sin,
And forced almost to yield,
To sink whenever they begin,
And cast away their shield,
My conflicts past I call to mind,
My own infirmity,
My littleness of faith, and find
Their unbelief in me.

O Thou who didst our frailties bear,
Our pains and sorrows feel,

And mak'st the lambs Thy tender care,
A present Saviour still,
Thy strength in man's infirmity
Be perfectly display'd,
And let us find laid upon Thee
Our all-sufficient aid.

Most feeble of the feeble throng,
To Thee for help I cry;
The least of saints (whoe'er is strong)
The chief of sinners I:
Weakest I would be, Lord, and least,
Till mark'd with Thy own name;
And then I sink into that Rest,
And then I nothing am.

University of Virginia Library

3137.

[Is there a frailty of the saints]