The man that views his guilt and sin
With clear enlighten’d eyes,
He sees how vile a wretch he’s been,
And down in dust he lies.
With humble, low submission ’tis
His soul is bro’t to say,
That God the sovreign potter is,
And he but worthless clay.
But yet he can’t despair of grace,
He wrestles with his God,
And begs his precious soul might taste
The merits of his blood.
My ardent cries shall still ascend,
While I have pow’r to speak,
And if I perish in the end,
I’ll die beneath thy feet.
The man that’s bro’t to such a case,
God won’t his suit deny;
But he will give him saving grace,
And lift his soul on high.
The one in three, and three in one,
All glory is their due,
From beings far above the sun,
And human creatures too.