One Hundred Holy Songs, Carols, and Sacred Ballads Original, and suitable for music [by Jean Ingelow] |
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[Thou, who didst bear man's grief of old] |
 | One Hundred Holy Songs, Carols, and Sacred Ballads |  |
121
[Thou, who didst bear man's grief of old]
“O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the
body of this death?”
Thou, who didst bear man's grief of old,
Receive my heart-sick cry;
O my great Father, I am bold
To speak, let me not die.
Receive my heart-sick cry;
O my great Father, I am bold
To speak, let me not die.
Pity Thyself in pity of me,
For Thou dost feel my moan,
Assuage my grief, it paineth Thee:
Lord, it is even Thine own.
For Thou dost feel my moan,
Assuage my grief, it paineth Thee:
Lord, it is even Thine own.
Thy spirit in my spirit pleads,
And yearns to ways upright,
With earnest mourning intercedes,
And moves toward the light.
And yearns to ways upright,
With earnest mourning intercedes,
And moves toward the light.
Would I might work Thy perfect will;
But sin doth yet endure;
And Thou continuest holy still,
I know that Thou art pure.
But sin doth yet endure;
And Thou continuest holy still,
I know that Thou art pure.
Father, I hate myself,—but Thou
Canst love my ruin'd race,
And fain didst spare heaven's rightful heir
To win us to His place.
Canst love my ruin'd race,
And fain didst spare heaven's rightful heir
To win us to His place.
My soul admires at His great love,
His travail sore to fill
With ransom'd men the courts above.
O let Him have His will.
His travail sore to fill
With ransom'd men the courts above.
O let Him have His will.
122
Let not ought rob Thine only Son,
Nor foil Thy great decree.
Father of mercies, all is done—
Well done, and perfectly.
Nor foil Thy great decree.
Father of mercies, all is done—
Well done, and perfectly.
Fain would I walk as He did walk,
In ways sincere and sure,
Holy in mind, in deed, in talk
Made pure, as He is pure.
In ways sincere and sure,
Holy in mind, in deed, in talk
Made pure, as He is pure.
Content Him, save and set me free,
His wounds are not made whole,
Till in high heaven Thou let Him see
Of the travail of His soul.
His wounds are not made whole,
Till in high heaven Thou let Him see
Of the travail of His soul.
| One Hundred Holy Songs, Carols, and Sacred Ballads | |