III
Oh!
I cannot meet with thee,
Nor once approach thy memory,
But all my joys are dead,
And all my sacred treasures fled,
As if I now did dwell
In Hell.
IV
Lord!
O hear how short I breathe!
See how I tremble here beneath
A sin! its ugly face
More terror than its dwelling-place
Contains, (O dreadful sin)
Within!
[THE RECOVERY]
Sin! wilt thou vanquish me!
And shall I yield the victory?
Shall all my joys be spoiled,
And pleasures soiled
By thee!
Shall I remain
As one that's slain
And never more lift up the head?
Is not my Saviour dead!
His blood, thy bane, my balsam, bliss, joy, wine,
Shall thee destroy; heal, feed, make me divine.