John & Charles Wesley · 32 of 258

Frailty

From the same.

Lord, how in silence I despise The giddy worldling’s snare! This beauty, riches, honour, toys Not worth a moment’s care. Hence, painted dust, and gilded clay! You have no charms for me: Delusive breath, be far away! I waste no thought on thee.

But when abroad at once I view Both the world’s hosts and Thine! Those simple, sad, afflicted, few; These numerous, gay, and fine: Lost my resolves, my scorn is past, I boast my strength no more; A willing slave they bind me fast With unresisted power.

O, brook not this; let not Thy foes Profane Thy hallow’d shrine: Thine is my soul, by sacred vows Of strictest union Thine! Hear then my just, though late request, Once more the captive free; Renew Thy image in my breast, And claim my heart for Thee.