Fain would I, Lord of grace,
With pe­ni­ten­tial tears
The re­cord of my sins ef­face,
That in Thy book ap­pears:

Fain would I jour­ney hence,
In garb of stain­less white,
And made by mine own pe­ni­tence
Well pleas­ing in Thy sight.

Fond idle dream! the foe
But lures and fools my soul;
Not all my tears can peace be­stow—
Thou on­ly mak­est whole.

Hath ev­er sailor tossed,
Or suf­fer­er racked in pain,
Within Thine an­chor­age been lost,
Or found Thy Gi­le­ad vain?

Maker and hope of all!
Wounded and sick am I:
Great Heal­er, save me, lest I fall
And per­ish ut­ter­ly.

Can bound­less love re­ject?
Shall mer­cy say me nay,
Who cry with all Thine own elect
Before Thee, night and day?