Lord, thou hast won, at length I yield,
My heart, by mighty grace compelled,
Surrenders all to thee;
From pole to pole let others roam,
And search in vain for bliss;
My soul is satisfied at home,
The Lord my portion is.
What a mournful life is mine,
Fill with crosses, pains and cares!
Every work defiled with sin,
Every step beset with snares!
See the gloomy gath'ring cloud
Hanging o'er a sinful land!
Sure the Lord proclaims aloud,
Times of trouble are at hand:
How David, when by sin deceived,
From bad to worse went on!
For when the Holy Spirit's grieved,
Our strength and guard are gone.
As once for Jonah, so the Lord
To soothe and cheer my mournful hours,
Prepared for me a pleasing gourd,
The church a garden is
In which believers stand,
Like ornamental trees
Planted by God's own hand:
What think you of Christ? is the test
To try both your state and your scheme;
You cannot be right in the rest,
Unless you think rightly of him.
Beside the gospel pool
Appointed for the poor;
From year to year, my helpless soul
Has waited for a cure.
When Israel's tribes were parch'd with thirst,
Forth from the rock the waters burst;
And all their future journey through