O Thou, who plead’st the wi­dow’s cause,
Who on­ly canst re­pair my loss,
And sweet­en all my woe,
Distressed, dis­con­so­late, for­lorn,
Let me in Thy dear bo­som mourn,
Nor oth­er com­fort know.

A de­so­late soul, Thou know’st, I am;
For Thou hast called me by my name,
Thy poor aff­lict­ed one,
Hast in the fie­ry fur­nace tried,
And chose a mourn­er for Thy bride,
When all my joys were gone.

The soul whom more than life I loved,
Thy jeal­ous mer­cy hath re­moved,
To make me whol­ly Thine:
With stream­ing eyes the Hand I see,
And bow me to the just de­cree,
And bless the love Di­vine.

Still would I pour my mourn­ful tears,
And all my so­lemn days, or years,
In sac­red sad­ness spend;
Instant in strong ef­fec­tu­al pray­ers,
Till death re­lease me from my cares,
And faith in vi­sion end.

For this I in Thy Spir­it groan,
Forsaken, com­fort­less, alone
I would with God abide;
Cut off from man, to Je­sus cleave,
And ne­ver for a mo­ment leave
My heav’n­ly Bride­groom’s side.

Allow, dear Lord, the wi­dow’s plea,
And oh! shut up my soul with Thee,
Against the nup­ti­al feast;
Make rea­dy for that glo­ri­ous day,
And then Thy spot­less bride con­vey
To Thine eter­nal rest.