3299.
[Conscience of ill, how sharp the pain!]
Conscience of ill, how sharp the pain!
How deeply must a soul complain,
With harrowing guilt oppress'd!
That pain and deep complaint is mine,
A stranger to the blood Divine,
And faith's internal rest.
But say, Thou all-atoning Lamb,
Exposed to grief, and pain, and shame,
Extended on the tree,
Jesus, so lavish of Thy blood,
Why didst Thou pour that precious flood,
If not to sprinkle me?
Thy blood was shed for me in vain,
Unless, to purge my sinful stain
Its virtue to exert,
Unless by living faith applied,
It speak me freely justified,
And purify my heart.
Come then, and by Thy death release
My troubled heart, which seeks for ease,
For liberty, and love:
Touch me, and white as Salmon's snow,
And hallow'd by Thy blood, I go
To see Thy face above.
