Wherefore dost Thou long­er tar­ry,
Blessèd of the Lord, afar?
Would it were Thy will to en­ter
To my heart, O Thou my Star,
Thou my Je­sus, Fount of pow­er,
Helper in the need­ful hour!
Sharpest wounds my heart is feel­ing,
Touch them, Savior, with Thy heal­ing!

For I shrink be­neath the ter­rors
Of the law’s tre­men­dous sway;
All my count­less crimes and errors
Stand be­fore me night and day.
Oh the hea­vy, fear­ful load
Of the right­eous wrath of God!
Oh the aw­ful voice of thun­der
Cleaving heart and soul asun­der!

While the foe my soul is tell­ing,
There is grace no more for thee,
Thou must make thy end­less dwell­ing
In the pains that tor­ture me.
Yes, and keen­er still thy smart,
Conscience, in my ang­uished heart,
By thy ve­nomed tooth tor­ment­ed,
Long-past sins are sore re­pent­ed.

Would I then, to soothe my sor­row,
And my pain awhile for­get,
From the world a com­fort bor­row,
I but sink the deep­er yet,
She hath com­forts that but grieve,
Joys that sting­ing me­mo­ries leave,
Helpers that my heart are break­ing,
Friends that do but mock its ach­ing.

All the world can give is cheat­ing,
Strengthless all, and mere­ly naught;
Have I great­ness, it is fleet­ing;
Have I rich­es, are they aught
But a heap of glit­ter­ing earth?
Pleasure? Lit­tle is it worth
When it brings no joy or laugh­ter
That thou wilt not rue here­af­ter.

All de­light, all con­so­la­tion
Lies in Thee, Lord Je­sus Christ,
Feed my soul with Thy sal­va­tion,
O Thou Bread of Life un­priced.
Blessèd Light, with­in me glow,
Ere my heart breaks in its woe;
Oh re­fresh me and up­hold me,
Jesu, come, let me be­hold Thee.

Joy, my soul, for He hath heard thee,
He will come and en­ter in;
Lo! He turns and draw­eth to­ward thee,
Let thy wel­come-song begin;
Oh pre­pare thee for such guest,
Give thee whol­ly to thy rest,
With an op­ened heart adore Him,
Pour thy griefs and fears be­fore Him.

Thy mis­deeds are thine no long­er,
He hath cast them in the sea,
And the love of God shall con­quer
All the strength of sin in thee.
Christ is vic­tor in the field,
Mightiest wrong to Him must yield,
He with bless­ing will ex­alt thee
O’er what­e’er would here as­sault thee.

What would seem to hurt or shame thee
Shall but work thy good at last,
Since the Christ hath deigned to claim thee,
And His truth stands ev­er fast;
And if thine can but en­dure,
There is naught so fixed and sure,
As that thou shalt hymn His prais­es
In the hap­py heav’n­ly plac­es.