“We that are in this tabernacle do groan, being burdened.”
OH, how I hourly groan with inward pain,
Oppressed, and burthened with this sinful flesh!
Though living waters oft my soul refresh,
I'm bound, and prisoned with corruption's chain:
I should account e'en death itself a gain;
For from my fetters death would set me free,
Breaking each cord that keeps me, Lord, from Thee:
Washed in Thy cleansing blood from every stain,
How would my raptured spirit soar on high,
With naught to hinder song, or drag me down,
And every tear wiped from my weeping eye;
And Thine own hand my head with life should crown.
Oh, precious fruits of Thy soul's agony,
Whose love the many waters could not drown.