The poem
(Isaiah, lvii.15)
The Lord will happiness divine On contrite hearts bestow; Then tell me, gracious God, is mine A contrite heart or no?
I hear, but seem to hear in vain, Insensible as steel; If aught is felt, 'tis only pain, To find I cannot feel.
I sometimes think myself inclined To love Thee if I could; But often feel another mind, Averse to all that's good.
My best desires are faint and few, I fain would strive for more; But when I cry, "My strength renew!" Seem weaker than before.
Thy saints are comforted, I know, And love Thy house of prayer; I therefore go where others go, But find no comfort there.
Oh make this heart rejoice or ache; Decide this doubt for me; And if it be not broken, break -- And heal it, if it be.