Jesus, to thee I make my moan;

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.