1 Oh, if my soul were form'd for woe,
How would I vent my sighs!
Repentance should like rivers flow,
From both my streaming eyes.
2 'Twas for my sins my dearest Lord
Hung on the cursed tree,
And groan'd away a dying life,
For thee, my soul, for thee.
3 Oh, how I hate those lusts of mine,
That crucify'd my God,
Those sins that pierc'd and nail'd his flesh
Fast to the fatal wood!
4 Yes, my Redeemer, they shall die,
My heart has so decreed;
Nor will I spare the guilty things
That made my Saviour bleed.
5 Whilst, with a melting broken heart,
My murder'd Lord I view,
I'll raise revenge against my sins,
And slay the murd'rers too.
Text Information | |
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First Line: | Oh, if my soul were form'd for woe |
Language: | English |
Publication Date: | 1801 |
Notes: | Public Domain. |