Wesley Corpus

Under the gauling iron yoke To thee my only help I look, To thee in secret groan: I cannot murmur or complain, But meekly all my griefs sustain For thy dear sake alone. The promise stands for ever sure, The griefs I for thy sake endure My crown and joy shall be: But all my strength of patient grace, And all my glorious happiness Is a free gift from thee. Why in the neighbourhood of hell, Saviour, am I constrain'd to dwell Who would be wholly thine, Subjected to a furious lord, Who heaven provokes at every word, And dares the wrath divine! A witness of his frantic ways His drunken riotous excess, Am I a partner too? Page 150 Jesus, mine eyes are unto thee: Shew in this sad perplexity What should thy servant do? Must I th' infernal language hear Tormenting to a sober ear, And not reprove his sin? Words from his slaves he cannot brook But let him meet my mournful look, And stand condemn'd within. Him let my blameless life reprove, My labour of unwearied love, My active zeal to please, To serve his will by day and night, As one who in a world of light An heavenly Master sees. By duteous and respectful awe O might I his attention draw To principles unseen! A testimony from thy foe Extort, that those who Jesus know Give all their due to men. Then let his waken'd soul arise, Shake off the chains of vulgar vice, And every sin abhor'd, Till pardon makes him truly free, And turns his heart to serve with me Our dear redeeming Lord. Servant of Christ, on him I call: The help and sure resource of all His followers in distress; Saviour, in my defence arise; My soul as among lions lies, And no deliverance sees. Page 151 Departing from their sinful way, I make myself the sinner's prey, Provoke the sons of night (While good for evil I return) To hunt me down with cruel scorn, And rancorous despite. Thy confessor I stand alone, My heavenly Lord and Master own By them alas, denied: The alien host is always near, Yet cannot I their outrage fear With Jesus on my side. I cannot haughtily contemn, Or once prefer myself to them, Or bitterly reprove The slaves of open wickedness; I differ thro' thy only grace, And freely pardning love.