1 To thee, my God, I make my plaint;
To thee my trembling soul draws near;
Let not thy chastening make me faint,
Nor guilt o’erwhelm me with despair.

2 What though thou frown to try my faith?
What though thy heavy hand afflict?
Thou wilt not give me up to death,
Not enter into judgment strict.

3 I know thy judgments, Lord, are right;
Thy rod commands me to repent;
If with my sin compared, ’tis light,
And all in faithfulness is sent.

4 What would my blood avail, if spilt?
Thou hast in richer blood been paid,
When all my dreadful debt of guilt
Was on my dying Saviour laid.

5 Then help me by thy grace to bear
Whate’er thou send to purge my dross;
If in his crown I hope to share,
Why should I grudge to bear his cross?

6 Though thou severely with me deal,
Still will I in thy mercy trust;
Accomplish in me all thy will;
Only remember I am dust.