O that mine eye might clos­èd be
To what con­cerns me not to see.

That deaf­ness might pos­sess my ear
To what con­cerns me not to hear.

That truth my tongue might ev­er tie
From speak­ing words of va­ni­ty.

That no vain thought might ev­er rest
Or be con­ceived with­in my breast.

So that in deed and word and thought,
Glory may un­to God be wrought.

But are wish­es? Lord mine eye
Is fixed on Thee, to Thee I cry!

Cleanse, Lord, and pu­ri­fy my heart
And make it clean in ev­ery part.

And when ’tis pure, Lord, keep it so,
For that is more than I can do.