What a mourn­ful life is mine,
Filled with cross­es, pains and cares!
Every work de­filed with sin,
Every step be­set with snares!

If alone I pen­sive sit,
I my­self can hard­ly bear;
If I pass along the street,
Sin and ri­ot tri­umph there.

Jesus! how my heart is pained,
How it mourns for souls de­ceived!
When I hear Thy name pro­faned,
When I see Thy Spir­it grieved!

When Thy child­ren’s griefs I view,
Their dis­tress be­comes my own;
All I hear, or see, or do,
Makes me trem­ble, weep and groan.

Mourning thus I long had been,
When I heard my Sav­ior’s voice;
Thou hast cause to mourn for sin,
But in Me thou may’st re­joice.

This kind word dis­pelled my grief,
Put to si­lence my com­plaints;
Though of sin­ners I am chief,
He has ranked me with His saints.

Though con­strained to dwell awhile
Where the wick­ed strive and brawl;
Let them frown, so He but smile,
Heav’n will make amends for all.

There, be­liev­ers, we shall rest,
Free from sor­row, sin and fears;
Nothing there our peace mo­lest,
Through eter­nal rounds of years.

Let us then the fight en­dure,
See our cap­tain look­ing down;
He will make the con­quest sure,
And be­stow the pro­mised crown.