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 | The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley |  |
LIX. THE SAME.
Hymn 9.
[Poor, wretched heart, by sin oppress'd]
Poor, wretched heart, by sin oppress'd,
And wilt thou never be at rest,
And must thou always grieve!
Ah! woe is me, I still complain,
And groan to bear my iron chain;
In sin, in hell I live.
And wilt thou never be at rest,
And must thou always grieve!
Ah! woe is me, I still complain,
And groan to bear my iron chain;
In sin, in hell I live.
396
Encompass'd by the dogs of hell,
Sin, only sin without I feel,
Sin only reigns within;
Sin always meets my blasted eyes,
Sin is the worm that never dies,
And all my soul is sin.
Sin, only sin without I feel,
Sin only reigns within;
Sin always meets my blasted eyes,
Sin is the worm that never dies,
And all my soul is sin.
O'erwhelm'd with horrible affright,
I shudder at the monster's sight,
And know not where to fly;
O for Thy pity's sake remove,
Take, seize me, Saviour, from above,
And give me, now to die.
I shudder at the monster's sight,
And know not where to fly;
O for Thy pity's sake remove,
Take, seize me, Saviour, from above,
And give me, now to die.
My vehement soul cries out for death!
Bury me in the depth beneath,
Air, earth, or sea, or fire!
But save me from the great offence,
And let me keep my innocence,
And without sin expire.
Bury me in the depth beneath,
Air, earth, or sea, or fire!
But save me from the great offence,
And let me keep my innocence,
And without sin expire.
O that I could my soul resign,
And fairly lose whate'er is mine,
Step o'er the griefs between,
And snatch the death, for which I call,
Or let me into nothing fall,
To 'scape the hell of sin.
And fairly lose whate'er is mine,
Step o'er the griefs between,
And snatch the death, for which I call,
Or let me into nothing fall,
To 'scape the hell of sin.
Struggles my soul, and gasps for ease
In more than mortal agonies,
A living death I bear:
I wish—I strive—but cannot die;
Still in the flames of sin I lie,
The Tophet of despair.
In more than mortal agonies,
A living death I bear:
I wish—I strive—but cannot die;
Still in the flames of sin I lie,
The Tophet of despair.
397
I need not fear the burning pool,
Already kindled in my soul
The wrath Divine I feel,
With not one drop of comfort nigh
To cool my tongue, I howl, and cry,
Tormented in this hell.
Already kindled in my soul
The wrath Divine I feel,
With not one drop of comfort nigh
To cool my tongue, I howl, and cry,
Tormented in this hell.
O hell of sin! thy fiery rage
Not many waters can assuage,
Not all the ocean's flood,
Thy flames would, spite of all, increase:
What then can make thy burnings cease?
A drop of Jesu's blood.
Not many waters can assuage,
Not all the ocean's flood,
Thy flames would, spite of all, increase:
What then can make thy burnings cease?
A drop of Jesu's blood.
| The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley | |