Lord, I Would Spread My Sore Distress

Lord

I would spread my sore dis­tress

And guilt be­fore Thine eyes;

Against Thy laws

against Thy grace

How high my crimes arise!

Shouldst Thou con­demn my soul to hell

And crush my flesh to dust

Heav’n would ap­prove Thy ven­geance well

And earth must own it just.

I from the stock of Ad­am came

Unholy and un­clean;

All my orig­in­al is shame

And all my na­ture sin.

Born in a world of guilt

I drew

Contagion with my breath;

And as my days ad­vanced

I grew

A just­er prey for death.

Cleanse me

O Lord

and cheer my soul

With Thy for­giv­ing love;

And make my brok­en spir­it whole

And bid my pains re­move.

Let not Thy spir­it quite de­part

Nor drive me from Thy face;

Create anew my vi­cious heart

And fill it with Thy grace.

Then I will make Thy mer­cy known

Before the sons of men;

Backsliders shall ad­dress Thy throne

And turn to God again.