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LVII. THE SAME.

Hymn 7.

[Wretch that I am, what help, or hope]

Wretch that I am, what help, or hope
Of rescue is for me!
Have I not fill'd the measure up
Of mine iniquity?
Have I not fought against my God,
(Alas no longer mine!)
Refused to hear the threatening rod,
And dared the wrath Divine?
From Him I farther still have stray'd,
Still more rebellious been,
Of faith a dreadful shipwreck made,
And added sin to sin.
392

Vilest of all the' apostate race
I have His love withstood,
And sinn'd against His pardoning grace,
And trampled on His blood.
That blood, which speaking once for me
My heart and conscience heard:
But harden'd now my heart I see,
My conscience now is sear'd.
More desperate in my damn'd estate,
And more enslaved I am,
Than when I by the fleshpots sat,
And wallow'd in my shame.
No power to stand against my sin,
No will, alas! have I;
But yield to every thought unclean,
And greedily comply.
Draughts of iniquity I drink,
From sin to sin I fall;
Whate'er I do, or speak, or think,
Or am, is evil all.
What shall I do? by guilt oppress'd,
Shall I in Egypt dwell?
Alas! in sinning to seek rest,
Is to seek rest in hell.
Shall I believe, Who made the eye
My folly doth not see,
“Sin in His own He passes by,
He winks at sin in me?”
Ah! no; my spirit's desperate wound
I cannot slightly heal;
No peace is for the wicked found,
The sea is troubled still.
393

The storm of sin can never cease,
The tumult in my breast,
Unless the Lord create my peace,
And speak me into rest.
This is my only hope, (might I
Presume to call it mine,)
My soul, though at the point to die,
Would live by grace Divine.
The grace I have abused, alone
Can help and comfort give,
Would Jesus hear my dying groan,
And bid the sinner live.
Ah! Lord, if I again may dare
For mercy to look up,
Snatch from the whirlpool of despair,
And give me back my hope.
Jesus, the forfeiture restore,
On me the grace bestow,
On even ground to stand once more
Against my mortal foe.
To-day, while it is call'd to-day,
My stubborn soul convert,
Strike the hard rock, and strike away
The stony from my heart.
O bid me look on Thee, and mourn
For all my follies past,
Or let me now to dust return,
And sin and breathe my last.
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