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Poem by Isaac Watts
Repentance at the cross. O, if my soul were formed for woe, How would I vent my sighs! Repentance should like rivers flow From both my streaming eyes. 'Twas for my sins my dearest Lord Hung on the cursed tree, And groaned away a dying life For thee, my soul, for thee. O, how I hate those lusts of mine That crucified my God! Those sins that pierced and nailed his flesh Fast to the fatal wood! Yes, my Redeemer, they shall die, My heart has so decreed; Nor will I spare the guilty things That made my Savior bleed. Whilst, with a melting, broken heart, My murdered Lord I view, I'll raise revenge against my sins, And slay the murd'rers too.
Isaac Watts's other poems:
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