Scripture Verse

Out of the depths I cry to Thee, O Lord. Psalm 130:1

Introduction

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Catherine Winkworth
(1827–1878)

Words: Mar­tin Lu­ther, 1523 (Aus tief­er Noth schrei ich zu dir). Trans­lat­ed from Ger­man to Eng­lish by Ca­the­rine Wink­worth, Ly­ra Ger­ma­ni­ca (Lon­don & New York: George Newnes & Charles Scrib­ner’s Sons, 1855), pag­es 49–50, and, in up­dat­ed form, in her Chor­ale Book for Eng­land, 1863, num­ber 40.

Music: Aus tief­er Not me­lo­dy by Mar­tin Lu­ther, 1524. Ar­ranged in Ge­sang­büch­lein, by Jo­hann Wal­ther, 1524 (🔊 pdf nwc).

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Martin Luther (1483–1546)

[This] is a ver­sion of Psalm cxxx, which Lu­ther called a Paul­ine Psalm, and great­ly loved. He took spe­cial pains with his ve­rsion. It was sung on May 9, 1525, at the fun­er­al of Fried­rich the Wise, in the Court Church at Wit­ten­berg.

The peo­ple of Hal­le sang it with tears in their eyes as the great Re­form­er’s cof­fin passed through their ci­ty on the way to the grave at Wit­ten­berg. It is wo­ven in­to the re­li­gious life of Ger­ma­ny.

In 1530, dur­ing the Diet of Aug­sburg, Lu­ther’s heart was oft­en sore trou­bled, but he would say, ‘Come, let us de­fy the de­vil and praise God by sing­ing a hymn.’ Then he would be­gin, ‘Out of the depths I cry to Thee.’ It was sung at his fun­er­al.

Telford, p. 307

Lyrics

Out of the depths I cry to Thee;
Lord, hear me, I im­plore Thee!
Bend down Thy gra­cious ear to me;
I lay my sins before Thee.
If Thou re­mem­ber­est each mis­deed,
If each should have its right­ful meed,
Who may abide Thy pre­sence?

Thou grant­est par­don through Thy love;
Thy grace alone avail­eth;
Our works could ne’er our guilt re­move;
Yea, e’en the best life fail­eth.
For none may boast him­self of aught,
But must con­fess Thy grace hath wrought
Whate’er in him is wor­thy.

And thus my hope is in the Lord,
And not in my own mer­it;
I rest upon His faith­ful Word
To them of con­trite spir­it.
That He is mer­ci­ful and just,
Here is my com­fort and my trust;
His help I wait with pa­tience.

And though it tar­ry till the night,
And round till morn­ing wak­en,
My heart shall ne’er mis­trust His might,
Nor count it­self for­sak­en.
Do thus, O ye of Is­rael’s seed,
Ye of the Spir­it born in­deed,
Wait for our God’s ap­pear­ing.

Though great our sins and sore our woes,
His grace much more abound­eth;
His help­ing love no lim­it knows,
Our ut­most need it sound­eth;
Our kind and faith­ful shep­herd, He
Who shall at last set Is­ra­el free
From all their sin and sor­row.