Isaac Watts, 1674-1748
Lord, I would spread my sore distress|
And guilt before thine eyes;
Against thy laws, against thy grace,
How high my crimes arise!
2. Shouldst thou condemn my soul to hell,
3. I from the stock of Adam came,
4. Born in a world of guilt, I drew|
Contagion with my breath;
And as my days advanced, I grew
A juster prey for death.
5. Cleanse me, O Lord, and cheer my soul
6. Let not thy Spirit quite depart,
7. Then will I make thy mercy known|
Before the sons of men;
Backsliders shall address thy throne,
And turn to God again.
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