Midnight Thoughts Poem by Caroline Fry

Why is my soul with weariness oppress'd,
Whence is this load so heavy on my breast?
Why is the tear so often on my cheek,
When scarce my fortunes may a tear bespeak?
Unsatisfied desire it cannot be,
For earth has nothing now to promise me;
Nor can it be regret for joy bereft,
For I want nothing while my God is left;
And were it fear, I still might wonder why
It should be here when danger is not nigh.
But it is none of these - a pang more strong,
More deep, more keen, than ever sorrow wrung.
O Thou! to whom my inmost thoughts reveal'd
Betray a secret from all else conceal'd,
Be witness with me, that, from sorrow free,
I mourn for nothing but my guilt to thee!
When nightly as I rest me on my bed,
I trace in memory how the day has sped,
Recall each erring thought, each idle word,
Each gift misus'd, and warning voice unheard;
The world conciliated, the cross denied,
The impatient wish, the swelling bosom's pride;
My spirit shrinks in terror from the view,
And mourns to think my God must see it too.
Tremendous thought! and must that holy eye
Look through my bosom's close obscurity,
And to all-judging excellence reveal
What I, a mortal, am asham'd to feel?
Search every thought, and - No, it must not be,
I cannot, dare not, meet the scrutiny!
Hide me, my Saviour, in that darkness hide,
That veil'd creation when its Maker died!
Cast o'er my soul the mantle of thy love,
And veil its blackness from the spirits above;
Or surely they will doubt if it can be
That heaven has a place reserv'd for me.
Would I could know, to all but God unknown,
If other hearts are evil as my own!
For much it seems with folly doubly fraught,
So often tutor'd, and so little taught;
With bitter penitence so often bow'd,
So often humbled, and yet still so proud;
The seat of passion's never-ceasing war,
This heart must be more hard than others are.
My Saviour, yes; I know the guilt I prove
Is more than cancell'd by thy dying love;
I know the bitterness my bosom bears
Is part of that which wrung thy sacred tears.
Full well I know the penalty is borne,
The sin is pardon'd, but it is not gone.
It rather seems that ev'ry hour upheaps
The guilty measure that my conscience keeps;
And as the promis'd heaven comes more near,
Methinks I grow less fit to enter there.
Must it be always so? Forbid it, heaven!
For sin is hell, e'en though it be forgiv'n;
And that blest mansion whither we repair,
Would be no heaven if sin might enter there.
Speed then, ye lagging hours, and bear away
All that remains of weak mortality;
Take all of earthly good I have possess'd -
Take but my sins, and I resign the rest.