Classic Poem

My God, sometimes I cannot pray,
Nor can I tell why thus I weep;
The words my heart has framed I cannot say,
Behold me prostrate at Thy feet.

Thou understandest all my woe;
Thou knows't the craving of my soul—
Thine eye beholdeth whereso'er I go;
Thou can'st this wounded heart make whole.

And oh! while prostrate here I lie,
And groan the words I fain would speak:
Unworthy though I be, pass not me by,
But let Thy love in showers break.

And deluge all my thirsty soul,
And lay my proud ambition low;
So while time's billows o'er me roll,
I shall be washed as white as snow.

Thou wilt not quench the smoking flax,
Nor wilt thou break the bruised reed;
Like potter's clay, or molten wax,
Mould me to suit Thy will indeed.