Fain would I, Lord of grace,
With penitential tears
The record of my sins efface,
That in Thy book appears:

Fain would I journey hence,
In garb of stainless white,
And made by mine own penitence
Well pleasing in Thy sight.

Fond idle dream! the foe
But lures and fools my soul;
Not all my tears can peace bestow—
Thou only makest whole.

Hath ever sailor tossed,
Or sufferer racked in pain,
Within Thine anchorage been lost,
Or found Thy Gilead vain?

Maker and Hope of all!
Wounded and sick am I:
Great Healer, save me, lest I fall
And perish utterly.

Can boundless love reject?
Shall mercy say me nay,
Who cry with all Thine own elect
Before Thee, night and day?