I weep, but do not yield,
I mourn, yet still re­bel;
My in­most soul seems steeled,
Cold and im­mov­able.

The wound is sharp and deep;
My spir­it bleeds with­in;
And yet I lie asleep,
And still I sin, I sin.

My bruis­èd soul com­plains
Of stripes with­out, with­in;
I feel these pierc­ing pains—
Yet still I sin, I sin.

O’er me the low cloud hung
Its weight of shade and fear;
Unmoved I passed along,
And still my sin is here.

Yon mass­ive moun­tain-peak
The lightn­ing rends at will;
The rock can melt or break—
I am un­brok­en still.

My sky was once noon-bright,
My day was calm the while,
I loved the plea­sant light,
The sun­shine’s ha­ppy smile.

I said, my God, oh, sure,
This love will kin­dle mine;
Let but this calm en­dure,
Then all my heart is Thine.

Alas, I knew it not!
The sum­mer flung its gold
Of sun­shine o’er my lot,
And yet my heart was cold.

Trust me with pros­per­ous days,
I said, O spare the rod;
Thee and Thy love I’ll praise,
My gra­cious, pa­tient God.

Must I be smit­ten, Lord?
Are gent­ler mea­sures vain?
Must I be smit­ten, Lord?
Can no­thing save but pain?

Thou trust­ed me a while;
Alas! I was de­ceived;
I re­veled in the smile,
Yet to the dust I cleaved.

Then fierce the tem­pest broke,
I knew from whom it came;
I read in that sharp stroke
A Fa­ther’s hand and name.

And yet I did Thee wrong;
Dark thoughts of Thee came in—
A fro­ward, self­ish throng—
And I al­lowed the sin!

I did Thee wrong, my God,
I wronged Thy truth and love;
I fret­ted at the rod,
Against Thy pow­er I strove.

I said, my God, at length,
This sto­ny heart re­move;
Deny all oth­er strength,
But give me strength to love.

Come near­er, near­er still,
Let not Thy light d­epart;
Bend, break this stu­bborn will,
Dissolve this ir­on heart.

Less way­ward let me be,
More pli­able and mild,
In glad sim­pli­ci­ty
More like a trust­ful child.

Less, less of self each day,
And more, my God, of Thee;
O keep me in the way,
However rough it be.

Less of the flesh each day,
Less of the world and sin;
More of Thy Son, I pray,
More of Thy­self with­in.

Riper and rip­er now,
Each hour let me be­come,
Less fit for scenes be­low,
More fit for such a home.

More mold­ed to Thy will,
Lord, let Thy serv­ant be,
Higher and high­er still,
Liker and lik­er Thee.

Leave naught that is un­meet;
Of all that is mine own;
Strip me, and so com­plete
My train­ing for the throne.