John Newton, 1841
My God, how perfect are Thy ways,
But mine polluted are;
Sin twines itself about my praise,
And slides into my prayer.
When I would speak what Thou hast done
To save me from my sin,
I cannot make Thy mercies known,
But self-applause creeps in.
Divine desire, that holy flame
Thy grace creates in me,
Alas, impatience is its name,
When it returns to Thee.
This heart a fountain of vile thoughts,
How does it overflow!
While self upon the surface floats,
Still bubbling from below.
Let others in the gaudy dress,
Of fancied merit shine,
The Lord shall be my righteousness,
The Lord forever mine.