|O THAT I knew the secret place,
Where I might find my God!
I’d spread my wants before His face
And pour my woes abroad.
|2||I’d tell Him how my sins arise,
What sorrows I sustain;
How grace decays and comfort dies,
And leaves my heart in pain.
|3||He knows what arguments I’d take
To wrestle with my God;
I’d plead for His own mercy’s sake,
And for my Saviour’s blood.
|4||My God will pity my complaints,
And heal my broken bones;
He takes the meaning of His saints,
The language of their groans.
|5||Arise, my soul, from deep distress,
And banish every fear;
He calls you to His throne of grace
To spread your sorrows there.
|Isaac Watts, 1674-1748|