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. 3 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? 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. 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 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. 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. there's worse than nothing there! there's worse than nothing there! there's worse than nothing!
