Come, my soul and let us try, For a little season,
Ev'ry burden to lay by, Come and let us reason.
What is this that casts you down, Who are those that grieve you?
Speak and let the worst be known; Speak and God will hear you.
O, I sink beneath the load of my nature's evil!
Full of emnity to God; Captived by the devil!
Restless as the troubled seas, feeble faint, and fearful;
Plagued with ev'ry sore disease, How can I be cheerful?
Think on what thy Saviour bore in the gloomy garden.
Sweating blood at every pore to procure thy pardon!
See him stretched upon the wood, bleeding, grieving, crying,
Suffering all the wrath of God, groaning, gasping, dying!
This by faith I sometimes view and those views relieve me;
But my sins return anew, these are they that grieve me.
Nothing good within me dwells; E'en God's love rejected,
Have not I, if any soul, cause to be dejected?
Think how loud thy dying Lord cried out, "It is finished!"
Treasure up that sacred word, whole and undiminished;
Doubt not he will carry on, To its full perfection,
That good work he has begun; Why then, this dejection?
Faith when void of works is dead; This the Scripture's witness;
And what works have I to plead, who am all unfitness?
All my powers are full of greed, blind to truth, unholy;
If from death I'm fully saved, Why am I not healthy?
Pour not on thyself too long, lest it sink thee lower;
Look to Jesus, kind and strong, mercy joined with power;
Every work that thou must do, will thy gracious Savior
For thee work, and in thee too, for his laud and honor.
The Grieved Soul, Words: Joseph Hart, 1759; Music, M.A. Hendson, 1859, Sacred Harp tune.
