Lord, what a riddle is my soul!

Lord, what a riddle is my soul!
Alive when wounded, dead when whole!
Fondly I flee from pain, yet ease
Cannot content, nor pleasure please.

Thou hid'st thy face, my sins abound;
World, flesh, and Satan all surround;
Fain would I find my God, but fear
The means, perhaps, may prove severe.

If thou the least displeasure show,
And bring my vileness to my view,
Timorous and weak, I shrink and say,
"Lord, keep thy chastening hand away."

If reconciled I see thy face,
Thy matchless mercy, boundless grace,
O'ercome with bliss, I cry, "Remove
That killing sight, I die with love."

My dear Redeemer, purge this dross;
Teach me to hug and love the cross;
Teach me thy chastening to sustain,
Discern the love, and bear the pain.

Nor spare to make me clearly see
The sorrows thou hast felt for me;
If death must follow, I comply;
Let me be sick with love, and die.