O Thou, who plead’st the widow’s cause,
Who only canst repair my loss,
And sweeten all my woe,
Distressed, disconsolate, forlorn,
Let me in Thy dear bosom mourn,
Nor other comfort know.

A desolate soul, Thou know’st, I am;
For Thou hast called me by my name,
Thy poor afflicted one,
Hast in the fiery furnace tried,
And chose a mourner for Thy bride,
When all my joys were gone.

The soul whom more than life I loved,
Thy jealous mercy hath removed,
To make me wholly Thine:
With streaming eyes the Hand I see,
And bow me to the just decree,
And bless the love Divine.

Still would I pour my mournful tears,
And all my solemn days, or years,
In sacred sadness spend;
Instant in strong effectual prayers,
Till death release me from my cares,
And faith in vision end.

For this I in Thy Spi­rit groan,
Forsaken, comfortless, alone
I would with God abide;
Cut off from man, to Je­sus cleave,
And ne­ver for a moment leave
My heav’nly Bridegroom’s side.

Allow, dear Lord, the widow’s plea,
And oh! shut up my soul with Thee,
Against the nuptial feast;
Make rea­dy for that glo­ri­ous day,
And then Thy spotless bride convey
To Thine eter­nal rest.