Wesley Corpus

O might I have my one request, My fond, and foolish heart's desire, And get me hence, and be at rest, Into the deepest shades retire, Be clean forgot, and out of mind O where shall I the desart find! Can earth afford that secret place? Long have I sought it out in vain, And fled before the human face, And drag'd to distant worlds my chain, Yet still I found the carnal mind, I could not leave myself behind. 'Tis vain, I find, from self to flee For rest, to earth's remotest bound, The deep cries out, 'Tis not in me! Happiness is not to be found, Save only, Jesus, in thy breast: Thou art the soul's eternal rest. But how shall I to thee attain, Thee, whom I sinfully pursue, Unprofitable I, and vain! Thy glory is not in my view: Page 37 What shall I say, thy grace to win? My very prayer is turn'd to sin. Nothing in me thy grace can move, A wretched man of sin I am; But thou art good, but thou art love, And Jesus is thy healing name: Oh! For thy name, and mercy's sake, The sinner to thy bosom take. Do as thou findest in thy heart, Reject me, Saviour, or receive, Bid me from thee to hell depart, Or bid me come to thee, and live; I trust my soul to this alone, Let all thy will on me be done. A Poor Sinner. How happy is the man Who sees his misery, Who ever feels his nature's chain, Nor murmurs to be free. Who waits in patient hope, And languishing for home With chearful confidence looks up, And says, My Lord will come. He neither hopes nor fears Evil, or good below, But sighs for God, and lets his tears In secret silence flow. Stript of his joy, he grieves Quiet, and meek, and still; The matter to his Father leaves, And bids him work his will. Page 38 In calm, submissive grief He suffers his distress, He cannot snatch undue relief, Or wish his misery less: "My Father's will is good," (The patient mourner cries) "He never gives a stone for food, Or slights his children's sighs."