Though sor­rows rise, and dan­gers roll
In waves of dark­ness o’er my soul,
Though friends are false and love de­cays,
And few and ev­il are my days,
Though con­science, fierc­est of my foes,
Swells with re­mem­bered guilt my woes,
Yet e’en in na­ture’s ut­most ill,
I love Thee, Lord! I love Thee still!

Though Si­nai’s curse, in thun­der dread,
Peals o’er mine un­pro­tect­ed head,
And me­mo­ry points, with bu­sy pain,
To grace and mer­cy given in vain,
Till na­ture, shrink­ing in the strife,
Would fly to hell to ’scape from life,
Though ev­ery thought has pow­er to kill,
I love Thee, Lord! I love Thee still!

Oh, by the pangs Thy­self has borne,
The ruf­fi­an’s blow, the ty­rant’s scorn;
By Sin­ai’s curse, whose dread­ful doom
Was bur­ied in Thy guilt­less tomb;
By these my pangs, whose heal­ing smart,
Thy grace hath imp­lant­ed in my heart;
I know, I feel, Thy boun­te­ous will!
Thou lov­est me Lord! Thou lov­est me still!