Jesus, my sor­row lies too deep
For hu­man min­is­try;
It knows not how to tell it­self
To any but to Thee.

Thou dost re­mem­ber still, amid
The glo­ries of God’s throne,
The sor­rows of mor­ta­li­ty,
For they were once Thine own.

Yes: for, as if Thou wouldst be God,
Even in Thy mi­se­ry,
There’s been no sor­row but Thine own,
Untouched by sym­pa­thy.

Jesus, my faint­ing spir­it brings
Its fear­ful­ness to Thee;
Thine eye, at least, can pe­ne­trate
The cloud­ed mys­te­ry.

And is it not, O Lord, enough,
This ho­ly sym­pa­thy?
There is no sor­row e’er so deep
But I may bring to Thee.

It is enough, my pre­cious Lord,
Thy ten­der sym­pa­thy!
My ev­ery sin and sor­row can
Devolve it­self on Thee.

As God, Thou graspedst e’en the whole
Of hu­man mi­se­ry;
Thine own alone lay de­so­late,
That Thou might pi­tied be.

Thy ris­en life but fits Thee more
For kind­ly sym­pa­thy;
Thy love un­hin­dered rests up­on
Each bruis­èd branch in Thee.

Jesus! Thou hast availed to search
My deep­est ma­la­dy;
It free­ly flows—more free­ly finds
The gra­cious re­me­dy.