Wesley Corpus

Behold the servant of the Lord! I wait thy guiding eye to feel; To hear, and keep thine every word, To prove, and do thy perfect will, Joyful from all my works to cease, Glad to fulfil all righteousness. Me if thy grace vouchsafe to use, Meanest of all thy creatures me, The deed, the time, the manner chuse; Let all my fruit be found of thee, 9Published previously as "An Act of Devotion," in Farther Appeal to Men of Reason and Religion, Pt. I (London: Strahan, 1745), 105. A manuscript precursor appears in MS Shent, 172b-173a. Page 207 Let all my works in thee be wrought, By thee to full perfection brought. My every weak, though good, design O'er-rule, or change as seems thee meet: Jesus, let all the work be thine: Thy work, O Lord, is all-compleat, And pleasing in thy Father's sight: Thou only hast done all things right. Here then to thee thine own I leave, Mould as thou wilt the passive clay, But let me all thy stamp receive, But let me all thy words obey, Serve with a single heart and eye, And to thy glory live, and die. Hymns for Believers. Hymn VIII.10 "Will ye also go away? Lord, to whom shall we go? Thou hast the words of eternal life." John VI. 67, c. Jesu, whither shall I go, Thee my Saviour if I leave? Only thou canst ease my woe, Only thou canst pardon give; None beside can save from sin, None beside can make me clean. If I foolishly depart From the ark of thy dear breast, Where shall my unsettled heart Find a ground whereon to rest? Whither, or to whom shall I From myself for succour fly? 10A manuscript precursor of this hymn appears in MS Shent, 56a-57a. Page 208 Shall I back to Egypt go, To my vomit turn again, To my flesh corruption sow, Live anew in pleasures vain? No, with sin I cannot dwell, Sin is worse than death, and hell. Shall I my old toil renew, Catch an honourable name, Praise, which comes from man, pursue, Idolize, and pant for fame? Who on fame bestows his care, Grasps a shadow, feeds on air. Shall I go to courts and kings? Courts and kings are vanity, Beggarly and wretched things, Can they yield support to me? Crush'd by their own grandeur's weight, Poorly, miserably great!