Oh, if my soul was form’d for woe,
How would I vent my sighs!
Repentance should like rivers flow
From both my streaming eyes.

‘Twas for my sins my dearest Lord
Hung on the cursed tree,
And groan’d away a dying life
For thee, my soul, for thee,
For thee, my soul, for thee.

Recordings 1, 2, 3, 4