Classic Poem

The constant woes that load my back,
Such endless groans create;
My present life's a very black
Uncomfortable state.

My restless weary soul abhors
This loathsome lump of clay;
Longs to be free of sin and sores,
And wings to heav'n her way.

I make to God my heavy moan,
To give my sorrow vent;
But yet upon myself alone
I'll leave my sad complaint.

I'm press'd but I condemn thee not:
O Lord, condemn not me:
Why thou contendst with me so hot
Shew, Lord, and let me see.

If I be wicked in thine eyes,
Then wo to me indeed;
If righteous, yet shall never I
Lift up my haughty head.

Despair and deep confusion do
My wounded soul oppress:
O shew thy mercy, see my wo,
And pity my distress.