This is one of the first hymns Cow­per wrote af­ter his first at­tack of tem­po­ra­ry mad­ness. Cow­per had been prom­ised a post as Clerk of the Jour­nal to the House of Lords, but was dis­mayed up­on learn­ing he would have to un­der­go a pub­lic ex­am­in­a­tion in the House be­fore be­gin­ning his du­ties. The fol­low­ing ar­ti­cle from the North Amer­i­can Re­view, Jan­u­a­ry, 1834, de­scribes his di­lem­ma, and how God pre­vent­ed him from de­stroy­ing him­self:

As the time drew nigh, his ag­o­ny be­came more and more in­tense; he hoped and be­lieved that mad­ness would come to re­lieve him; he at­tempt­ed al­so to make up his mind to com­mit su­i­cide, though his con­science bore stern tes­ti­mo­ny against it; he could not by any ar­gu­ment per­suade him­self that it was right, but this des­per­a­tion pre­vailed, and he pro­cured from an apoth­e­c­ary the means of self-de­struct­ion. On the day be­fore his pub­lic ap­pear­ance was to be made, he hap­pened to no­tice a let­ter in the news­pa­per, which to his dis­or­dered mind seemed like a ma­lig­nant li­bel on him­self. He im­med­i­ate­ly threw down the pa­per and rushed into the fields, de­ter­mined to die in a ditch, but the thought struck him that he might es­cape from the count­ry. With the same vi­o­lence he pro­ceed­ed to make has­ty prep­ar­a­tions for his flight; but while he was en­gaged in pack­ing his port­man­teau his mind changed, and he threw him­self into a coach, or­der­ing the man to drive to the Tow­er wharf, in­tend­ing to throw him­self in­to the ri­ver, and not re­flect­ing that it would be im­poss­i­ble to ac­comp­lish his pur­pose in that pub­lic spot. On ap­proach­ing the wa­ter, he found a por­ter seat­ed up­on some goods: he then re­turned to the coach and was con­veyed to his lodg­ings at the Tem­ple. On the way he at­tempt­ed to drink the laud­a­num, but as oft­en as he raised it, a con­vuls­ive agi­ta­tion of his frame pre­vent­ed it from reach­ing his lips; and thus, re­gret­ting the loss of the op­por­tun­i­ty, but un­a­ble to avail him­self of it, he ar­rived, half dead with an­guish, at his apart­ment. He then shut the doors and threw him­self upon the bed with the laud­a­num near him, try­ing to lash him­self up to the deed; but a voice within seemed con­stant­ly to for­bid it, and as of­ten as he ex­tend­ed his hand to the poi­son, his fing­ers were con­tract­ed and held back by spasms.

At this time one of the in­mates of the place came in, but he con­cealed his ag­i­ta­tion, and as soon as he was left alone, a change came over him, and so de­test­a­ble did the deed ap­pear, that he threw away the laud­a­num and dashed the vi­al to piec­es. The rest of the day was spent in hea­vy in­sens­i­bil­i­ty, and at night he slept as us­u­al; but on wak­ing at three in the morn­ing, he took his pen­knife and lay with his weight upon it, the point toward his heart. It was brok­en and would not pen­e­trate. At day break he arose, and pas­sing a strong gar­ter around his neck, fast­ened it to the frame of his bed: this gave way with his weight, but on se­cur­ing it to the door, he was more suc­cess­ful, and re­mained sus­pend­ed till he had lost all con­scious­ness of ex­ist­ence. After a time the gar­ter broke and he fell to the floor, so that his life was saved.; but the con­flict had been great­er than his rea­son could en­dure. He felt for him­self a con­tempt not to be ex­pressed or im­ag­ined; when­ev­er he went into the street, it seemed as if ev­ery eye flashed up­on him with in­dig­na­tion and scorn; he felt as if he had of­fend­ed God so deep­ly that his guilt could ne­ver be for­giv­en, and his whole heart was filled with tu­mult­u­ous pangs of des­pair. Mad­ness was not far off, or rather mad­ness was al­ready come.

Af­ter re­cov­er­ing, Cow­per came to real­ize how God can erase the stain of any sin.