Forth went my cry in accent shrill,
“My Lord, have I no grace to thank?”
Its echo dying, lingered, sank,
“My Lord, have I no grace to thank?”
IV
I saw His piercéd hands and side,
I saw the thorn-wounds on His brow,—
“My Lord, forgive my sinful pride,
Accept my sore repentance now;”
Then rose high heaven’s adoring prayers,