O God of mercy, view my pleading tears

Verse 1

O God of mercy, view my pleading tears, And hear a contrite sinner's earnest pray'rs;

Verse 2

My spotted soul from her defilements, clean; O wash me, cleanse me, from my crying sin;

Verse 3

With shame, with anguish, I my crime confess; Abash'd, I own my horrid wickedness:

Verse 4

'Gainst thee I've sinn'd; my monstrous guilt thou view'st, And with immediate vengeance strict pursuest; That man may own impartial justice thine, And curb their impious tongues 'gainst pow'r divine.

Verse 5

But ah! remember, Lord, tho' great my blame, E'en from the womb my first infection came; In sin was I conceiv'd, in sin brought forth, And came a vile offender from the birth.

Verse 6

While thou, a soul from all contagion free, Dost still demand, rich in simplicity, A soul, with wisdom arm'd, with innocence, A soul, unspotted by the crimes of sense.

Verse 7

Be thine the glorious work O let me shew Far purer in thy sight than whitest snow.

Verse 8

With peace, with joy, with gladness fill my mind, 'Till my faint limbs their wonted vigour find;

Verse 9

Let not thine eye my mocking guilt survey, But wash the filth of all my sins away:

Verse 10

Cleanse thou my heart, O God, from ev'ry stain, Renew my soul that she her health regain;

Verse 11

And not in anger turn away thy face, But still with thy enliv'ning spirit bless:

Verse 12

O still my hopes of happiness restore; Uphold me still, that I may fall no more.

Verse 13

So shall transgressors, who thy mercy see, Forsake their errors, and give praise to thee:

Verse 14

O free me from the blood I basely spilt, cleanse my soul from her enormous guilt. Then shall my tongue thy tender mercies sing, Thy righteous justice hymn, all-gracious king.

Verse 15

Ope then my lips, O Lord, and I will raise My grateful voice, to celebrate thy praise;

Verse 16

The offer'd victim thou dost not demand; The victim else shou'd 'fore thy altar stand:

Verse 17

Pleas'd with a nobler sacrifice thou art; A broken spirit and a contrite heart.

Verse 18

Still Sion's hill, still Salem's walls defend; Be still, O God, thy people's pow'rful friend;

Verse 19

Then pure their offrings, pure their hearts shall be, The chastest vows shall they put up to thee; The fatted goat thy sacred fires shall feed, And the young bullock at thy altar bleed.