Shall still my languid heart inflame,
And bow my faltering knee:
O! yet this bosom feels the fire,
This trembling hand and drooping lyre
Have yet a strain for thee!
3 Yes! broken, tuneless, still, O Lord,
This voice transported shall record
Thy goodness, tried so long;
Till, sinking slow, with calm decay,
Its feeble murmurs melt away