Yet, though my lip to thee confess,
My wrestling bosom's sweet relief,
Think not I count my crime the less,
That pitying Heaven hath soothed my grief.
No—yon wild rose hath sweet perfume
To scatter on this desert air;
Yet, hid beneath its fragrant bloom,
Sharp thorns are set, the flesh to tear.
And thus, repentance, while it brings
Forgiveness to the broken heart,