The poem
Dear Lord! accept a sinful heart, Which of itself complains, And mourns, with much and frequent smart, The evil it contains.
There fiery seeds of anger lurk, Which often hurt my frame; And wait but for the tempter's work, To fan them to a flame.
Legality holds out a bribe To purchase life from Thee; And Discontent would fain prescribe How Thou shalt deal with me.
While Unbelief withstands Thy grace, And puts the mercy by, Presumption, with a brow of brass, Says, "Give me, or I die!"
How eager are my thoughts to roam, In quest of what they love! But ah! when duty calls them home, How heavily they move!
Oh, cleanse me in a Saviour's blood, Transform me by Thy power, And make me Thy beloved abode, And let me roam no more.