Classic Poem

Let down my Cheeks, my melting Heart
In trickling Streams incessant flow,
Let mournful Looks my Grief declare,
And Sighs my deep Contrition show.

Let Woe, Confusion, blushing Shame,
My Breast inhabit, and express
In my sad Face their wildest Shape,
While I to Heav'n my Guilt confess.

Would my sad Eyes were Springs of Tears,
My Head an unexhausted Source
Of wat'ry Stores, that moist Supplies
Might feed my Sorrow's endless Course.

On me, kind Saviour, cast a Look
Like that to guilty Peter sent,
That touch'd, like his, my Soul may grieve,
And yield to weeping Trouble vent.

Should not a Wretch with numerous Stains,
And Wounds and Sores so overspread,
To some unpeopled Desart fly,
Or hide in some dark Cave his Head?

Should I not leave frequented Towns,
The Seats of Mirth, and Sons of Joy,
That I my short Remains of Life
May penitent in Sighs employ;

That I my Actions may review,
My Faults and Follies past bewail,
And for Remission prost'rate cry
To Heav'n, till constant Pray'r prevail?

But tho' a bleeding Heart's requir'd,
No Grief by Contrite Sinners shown,
Without the Merits of the Cross,
Th' incens'd Almighty can atone.

Saviour to Thee, to Thee I fly,
With wrathful Justice intercede;
That I Forgiveness may obtain,
Thy dying Passion gracious plead.