The Wish. Gen. 18. 27; Zech. 12. 10; Heb. 2. 9
J. Hart C.M.
If dust and ashes might presume,
Great God, to talk to thee;
If in thy presence can be room
For crawling worms like me;
I humbly would my wish present,
For wishes I have none;
All my desires are now content
To be comprised in one.
The single boon I would entreat
Is, to be led by thee
To gaze upon thy bloody sweat
In sad Gethsemane.
To view (as I could bear at least)
Thy tender, broken heart,
Like a rich olive, bruised and pressed
With agonising smart.
[To see thee bowed beneath my guilt;
To see thy blood for sinners spilt,
My groaning, gasping God!
With sympathising grief to mourn
The sorrows of thy soul:
The pangs and tortures by thee borne
In some degree condole.]
There musing on thy mighty love,
I always would remain;
Or but to Golgotha remove,
And thence return again.
In each dear place the same rich scene
Should ever be renewed;
No object else should intervene,
But all be love and blood.
For this one favour oft I’ve sought;
And if this one be given,
I seek on earth no happier lot,
And hope the like in heaven.
Lord, pardon what I ask amiss,
For knowledge I have none;
I do but humbly speak my wish;
And may thy will be done.