Strange and mys­te­ri­ous is my life.
What op­po­sites I feel with­in!
A sta­ble peace, a con­stant strife;
The rule of grace, the pow­er of sin:
Too oft­en I am cap­tive led,
Yet dai­ly tri­umph in my Head,
Yet dai­ly tri­umph in my Head.

I prize the pri­vi­lege of pray­er,
But oh! what back­ward­ness to pray!
Though on the Lord I cast my care,
I feel its bur­den ev­ery day;
I seek His will in all I do,
Yet find my own is work­ing too,
Yet find my own is work­ing too.

I call the pro­mis­es my own,
And prize them more than mines of gold;
Yet though their sweet­ness I have known,
They leave me un­im­pressed and cold
One hour up­on the truth I feed,
The next I know not what I read,
The next I know not what I read.

I love the ho­ly day of rest,
When Je­sus meets His ga­thered saints;
Sweet day, of all the week the best!
For its re­turn my spi­rit pants:
Yet often, through my un­belief,
It proves a day of guilt and grief,
It proves a day of guilt and grief.

While on my Sav­ior I re­ly,
I know my foes shall lose their aim,
And there­fore dare their pow­er de­fy,
Assured of con­quest through His name,
But soon my con­fi­dence is slain,
And all my fears re­turn again,
And all my fears re­turn again.

Thus dif­fer­ent pow­ers with­in me strive,
And grace and sin by turns pre­vail;
I grieve, re­joice, de­cline, re­vive,
And vic­to­ry hangs in doubt­ful scale:
But Je­sus has His pro­mise passed,
That grace shall ov­er­come at last,
That grace shall ov­er­come at last.