Father, I stretch my hands to Thee,
No other help I know;
If Thou withdraw Thyself from me,
Ah! whither shall I go? What did Thine only Son endure,
Before I drew my breath!
What pain, what labor, to secure
My soul from endless death! O Jesus, could I this believe,
I now should feel Thy power;
Now my poor soul Thou wouldst retrieve,
Nor let me wait one hour. Surely Thou canst not let me die;
O speak, and I shall live;
And here I will unwearied lie,
Till Thou Thy Spirit give. Author of faith! to Thee I lift
My weary, longing eyes:
O let me now receive that gift!
My soul without it dies. The worst of sinners would rejoice,
Could they but see Thy face:
O, let me hear Thy quickening voice,
And taste Thy pardoning grace. |
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