Repentance at the cross.
O, if my soul were formed for woe,
How would I vent my sighs!
Repentance should like rivers
From both my streaming eyes.'Twas for my sins my dearest
Hung on the cursed tree,
And groaned away a dying
For thee, my soul, for thee.
O, how I hate those lusts of
That crucified my God!
Those sins that pierced and nailed his
Fast to the fatal wood!
Yes, my Redeemer, they shall die,
My heart has so decreed;
Nor will I spare the guilty
That made my Savior bleed.
Whilst, with a melting, broken heart,
My murdered Lord I view,
I'll raise revenge against my sins,
And slay the murd'rers too.
