John & Charles Wesley · 187 of 258

Mourning

When, gracious Lord, ah, tell me when Shall I into myself retire? To Thee discover all my pain, And show my troubled heart’s desire?

I long to pour out all my soul, Sorrow, and sin’s just weight to feel; To smart till Thou hast made me whole, To mourn till Thou hast said, “Be still.”

Sick of desire, for Thee I cry, And, weary of forbearing, groan: Horror and sin are ever nigh, My comfort and my God are gone.

Trembling in dread suspense I stand Sinking, and falling into sin, Till Thou reach out Thy mighty hand, And snatch me from this hell within.

Fain would I rise, and get me hence, From every fond engagement free,— Pleasure, and praise, and wealth, and sense, And all that holds me back from Thee.

O that the mild and peaceful dove Would lend his wings to aid my flight! Soon would I then far off remove, And hide me from this hateful light,—

Where none but the all-seeing eye Could mark or interrupt my grief; No human comforter be nigh, To torture me with vain relief.

Far in some lonely, desert place, For ever, ever would I sit, Languish to see the Saviour’s face, And perish, weeping at His feet.

O, what is life without my God! A burden more than I can bear: I struggle to throw off the load, Me from myself I strive to tear.

I ever gasp in Christ to live; O that to me the grace were given! Had I Thy heaven and earth to give, I’d buy Thee with Thy earth and heaven.

Let me—I know not how to pray; My anguish cannot be exprest: Jesu, Thou seest what I would say; O, let Thy bowels speak the rest!