Classic Poem

Though late, my heart, yet turn at last,
And shape thy course another way;
'Tis better lose thy labour past,
Than follow on to sure decay:
What though thou long have strayed awry?
In hope of grace for mercy cry.

Though weight of sin doth press thee down,
And keep thee grov'lling on the ground;
Though black Despair, with angry frown,
Thy wit and judgment quite confound;
Though time and wit have been misspent,
Yet grace is left if thou repent.

Weep then, my heart, weep still and still,
Nay, melt to floods of flowing tears;
Send out such shrieks as heav'n may fill,
And pierce thine angry Judge's ears,
And let thy soul, that harbours sin,
Bleed streams of blood to drown it in.

Then shall thine angry Judge's face
To cheerful looks itself apply;
Then shall thy soul be filled with grace,
And fear of death constrained to fly.
Even so, my God! oh when? how long?
I would, but Sin is too, too strong.

I strive to rise, Sin keeps me down;
I fly from sin, Sin follows me.
My will doth reach at glory's crown;
Weak is my strength, it will not be.
See how my fainting soul doth pant;
Oh let thy strength supply my want!