Classic Poem

Lord , I have sinn'd, and the black number swells
To such a dismal sum,
That should my stony heart and eyes,
And this whole sinful trunk a flood become,
And melt to tears, their drops could not suffice
To count my score,
Much less to pay:
But Thou, my God, hast blood in store,
Yet, since the balsam of thy blood,
Although it can, will do no good,
Unless the wound be cleans'd in tears before;
Thou in whose sweet, but pensive face,
Laughter could never steal a place,
Teach but my heart and eyes
To melt away,
And then one drop of balsam will suffice.