“The troubles of my heart are enlarged.” Ps. 25. 17
H. Fowler S.M.
1
Come, Saviour, quickly come,
Let me but feel thee near;
I’m a poor wanderer far from home,
Pursued by guilt and fear.
2
The troubles which I meet,
The evils which I feel,
The miry clay that clogs my feet,
Entangle, and I reel.
3
Thy hand alone can guide
My weather-beaten bark;
And in this stormy sea provide
A safe and solid ark.
4
O shut me safely in;
Then at the storm I’ll smile;
Nor fear the power of hell and sin,
But triumph all the while.
