I would, but can­not sing,
Guilt has un­tuned my voice;
The ser­pent sin’s en­ven­omed sting
Has poi­soned all my joys.

I know the Lord is nigh,
And would, but ca­nnot, pray;
For Sa­tan meets me when I try,
And frights my soul away.

I would but can’t re­pent
Though I en­dea­vor oft;
This sto­ny heart can ne’er re­lent
Till Je­sus make it soft.

I would but ca­nnot love,
Though wooed by love di­vine;
No ar­gu­ments have pow’r to move
A soul so base as mine.

I would, but can­not rest
In God’s most ho­ly will;
I know what He ap­points is best,
Yet mur­mur at it still.

Oh could I but be­lieve!
Then all would ea­sy be;
I would, but can­not, Lord re­lieve,
My help must come from Thee!

But if in­deed I would,
Though I can no­thing do,
Yet the de­sire is some­thing good,
For which my praise is due.

By na­ture prone to ill,
Till Thine ap­point­ed hour
I was as des­ti­tute of will,
As now I am of pow­er.

Wilt Thou not crown, at length,
The work Thou hast be­gun?
And with a will, af­ford me strength
In all Thy ways to run.