For my heart’s desire
Unto Thine is bent:
I aspire
To a full consent.
Not a word or look
I affect to own,
But by book,
And Thy Book alone.
Though I fail, I weep;
Though I halt in pace,
Yet I creep
To the throne of grace.
Then let wrath remove;
Love will do the deed:
For with love
Stony hearts will bleed.
Love is swift of foot;
Love’s a man of war,
And can shoot,
And can hit from far.
Who can ’scape his bow?
That which wrought on Thee,
Brought Thee low,
Needs must work on me.
Throw away Thy rod;
Though man frailties hath,
Thou art God:
Throw away Thy wrath!
A Dialogue
Man. Sweetest Saviour, if my soul
Were but worth the having,
Quickly should I then control
Any thought of waving.
But when all my care and pains
Cannot give the name of gains
To Thy wretch so full of stains,
What delight or hope remains?
Saviour. What, child, is the balance thine,
Thine the poise and measure?
If I say, ‘Thou shalt be Mine,’
Finger not My treasure.
What the gains in having thee
Do amount to, only He
Who for man was sold can see
That transferr’d th’ accounts to Me.
Man. But as I can see no merit
Leading to this favour,
So the way to fit me for it
Is beyond my savour.
As the reason, then, is Thine,
So the way is none of mine;
I disclaim the whole design;
Sin disclaims and I resign.
Saviour. That is all: if that I could
Get without repining;
And My clay, My creature, would
Follow My resigning;