By A Collection of Hymns

      C.M. Mark ix. 24.
      1 HOW sad our state by nature is!
      Our sin, how deep it stains!
      And Satan binds our captive souls
      Fast in his slavish chains.

      2 But hark! a voice of sovereign grace
      Sounds from the sacred word;
      "Ho, ye despairing sinners, come,
      And trust upon the Lord!"

      3 My soul obeys the Almighty's call,
      And runs to this relief;
      I would believe thy promise, Lord;
      O help my unbelief!

      4 To the blest fountain of thy blood,
      Incarnate God, I fly;
      Here let me wash my spotted soul
      From sins of deepest dye.

      5 A guilty, weak, and helpless worm,
      Into thy hands I fall;
      Be thou my strength and righteousness,
      My Saviour, and my all.