When Jesus, with his mighty love,

When Jesus, with his mighty love,
Visits my troubled breast,
My doubts subside, my fears remove,
And I'm completely blest;

I love the Lord with mind and heart,
His people and his ways;
Envy, and pride, and lust depart,
And all his works I praise;

Nothing but Jesus I esteem;
My soul is then sincere;
And everything that's dear to him,
To me is also dear.

But ah! when these short visits end,
Though not quite left alone,
I miss the presence of my Friend,
Like one whose comfort's gone.

I to my own sad place return,
My wretched state to feel;
I tire, and faint, and mope, and mourn,
And am but barren still.

More frequent let thy visits be,
Or let them longer last;
I can do nothing without thee;
Make haste, O God, make haste.