Classic Poem

How long, O Lord, and why,
Wilt thou thy glories shade?
How long unheeded shall my cry
Thy gentle ear invade?

Whene'er my feeble thought
On heav'nly things would muse;
The visions, to thy people brought
Their charms to me refuse.

Wisdom and works of pow'r,
Which in thy gospel shine,
On me in waste their sun-beams show'r.
O this blind soul of mine!

Thy miracles of love
To me no joy impart;
In me no tender passion move.
O my unfeeling heart!

If I to Jesus turn,
Nail'd to the cruel tree;
With no seraphic love I burn,
Although he dy'd for me.

Whene'er my sins I call
Before stern judgment's eye;
Scarce a bewailing tear will fall,
I scarce can heave a sigh.

Thy promises I lay
Close to my aking breast:
Fain would I hope, hope flees away —
My anguish finds no rest.

In darkness must I go,
An alien still from thee?
Ah! never shall my bosom know
The glow of piety?

And must I then despair?
Is there no last resource?
Though nature fails, Ah yet — elsewhere
Lives no assisting force?

Who, who, is he; that stands
Before thy gracious throne?
That lifts his interceding hands,
When humble sinners groan?

To whom has thy decree
Wisdom for sinners giv'n
Will not his grace indulge to me,
Some of that beam of heav'n?

Unclose, unclose these eyes,
Infuse the visual ray:
Before me bid thy glories rise,
With soul-reviving day.