The Poetical Works of John and Charles Wesley 59After a Recovery from Sickness

And live I yet by power Divine?

And have I still my course to run?

Again brought back in its decline

The shadow of my parting sun?

Wondering I ask, Is this the breast

Struggling so late and torn with pain?

The eyes that upward look'd for rest,

And dropt their weary lids again?

The recent horrors still appear:

O, may they never cease to awe!

Still be the King of Terrors near,

Whom late in all his pomp I saw.

Torture and sin prepared his way,

And pointed to a yawning tomb!

Darkness behind eclipsed the day,

And check'd my forward hopes of home.

My feeble flesh refused to bear

Its strong redoubled agonies:

When Mercy heard my speechless prayer,

And saw me faintly gasp for ease.

Jesus to my deliverance flew,

Where sunk in mortal pangs I lay:

Pale Death his ancient Conqueror knew,

And trembled, and ungrasp'd his prey!

The fever turn'd its backward course,

Arrested by Almighty power;

Sudden expired its fiery force,

And anguish gnaw'd my side no more.

God of my life, what just return

Can sinful dust and ashes give?

I only live my sin to mourn,

To love my God I only live!

To Thee, benign and saving Power,

I consecrate my lengthen'd days;

While mark'd with blessings, every hour

Shall speak Thy co-extended praise.

How shall I teach the world to love,

Unchanged myself, unloosed my tongue?

Give me the power of faith to prove,

And mercy shall be all my song.

Be all my added life employ'd

Thy image in my soul to see:

Fill with Thyself the mighty void;

Enlarge my heart to compass Thee!

O, give me, Saviour, give me more!

Thy mercies to my soul reveal:

Alas! I see their endless store,

Yet, O! I cannot, cannot feel!

The blessing of Thy love bestow:

For this my cries shall never fail;

Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,

I will not, till my suit prevail.

I'll weary Thee with my complaint;

Here at Thy feet for ever lie,

With longing sick, with groaning faint:

O, give me love, or else I die!

Without this best, divinest grace

'Tis death, 'tis worse than death to live;

'Tis hell to want Thy blissful face,

And saints in Thee their heaven receive.

Come then, my Hope, my Life, my Lord,

And fix in me Thy lasting home!

Be mindful of Thy gracious word,

Thou with Thy promised Father, come!

Prepare, and then possess my heart;

O, take me, seize me from above:

Thee do I love, for God Thou art;

Thee do I feel, for God is love!