O Thou who dost know what the heart fain would hide;
Who ever art ready whate'er may betide;
In whom the distressed can hope in their woe,
Whose ears with the groans of the wretched are plied—
Still bid Thy good gifts from Thy treasury flow;
All good is assembled where Thou dost abide;
To Thee, save my poverty, nought can I show,
And of Thee all my poverty's wants are supplied;
What choice have I save to Thy portal to go?
If 'tis shut, to what other my steps can I guide?
'Fore whom as a suppliant low shall I bow,
If Thy bounty to me, Thy poor slave, is denied?
But, oh! though rebellious full often I grow,
Thy bounty and kindness are not the less wide.
O LORD! I NOTHING CRAVE BUT THEE.
FROM THE TARTAR.
O Thou from whom all love doth flow,
Whom all the world doth reverence so,
Thou constitut'st each care I know;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
O keep me from each sinful way;
Thou breathedst life within my clay;
I'll therefore serve Thee night and day;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
I ope my eyes, and see Thy face,
On Thee my musings all I place,
I've left my parents, friends, and race;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
Take Thou my soul, my every thing;
My blood from out its vessels wring;
Thy slave am I, and Thou my King;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
I speak—my tongue on Thee doth roam;
I list—the winds Thy title boom;
For in my soul has God his home;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
The world the shallow worldling craves,
And greatness need ambitious knaves;
The lover of his maiden raves;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
The student needs his bookish lore,
The bigot shrines to pray before,
His pulpit needs the orator;
Oh Lord! I nothing crave but thee.