“My leanness, my leanness!” Isa. 24. 16; 32. 15

J. Hart         L.M.

Jesus, to thee I make my moan;
 My doleful tale I tell to thee;
 For thou canst help, and thou alone,
 A lifeless lump of sin like me.

Fain would I find increase of faith;
 Fain would I see fresh graces bloom;
 But ah! my heart’s a barren heath,
 Blasted with cold, and black with gloom.

True, thou hast kindly given me light;
 I know what Christians ought to be;
 But did the blind receive their sight
 Nothing but dismal things to see?

Though winter waste the earth awhile,
 Spring soon revives the verdant meads;
 The ripening fields in summer smile,
 And autumn with rich crops succeeds;

But I from month to month complain;
 I feel no warmth; no fruits I see;
 I look for life, but dead remain:
 ’Tis winter all the year with me.

[Yet sin’s rank weeds within me live;
 Barrenness is not all I bear;
 I do not so for nothing grieve:
 Alas! there’s worse than nothing there.]

Still on thy promise I’ll rely,
 From whom alone my fruit is found,
 Until the Spirit from on high
 Enrich the dry and barren ground.