Though sorrows rise, and dangers roll
In waves of darkness o’er my soul,
Though friends are false and love decays,
And few and evil are my days,
Though conscience, fiercest of my foes,
Swells with remembered guilt my woes,
Yet ev’n in nature’s utmost ill,
I love Thee, Lord! I love Thee still!

Though Sinai’s curse, in thunder dread,
Peals o’er mine unprotected head,
And memory points, with busy pain,
To grace and mercy given in vain,
Till nature, shrinking in the strife,
Would fly to hell to ’scape from life,
Though every thought has power to kill,
I love Thee, Lord! I love Thee still!

Oh, by the pangs Thyself has borne,
The ruffian’s blow, the tyrant’s scorn;
By Sinai’s curse, whose dreadful doom
Was buried in Thy guiltless tomb;
By these my pangs, whose healing smart,
Thy grace hath implanted in my heart;
I know, I feel, Thy bounteous will!
Thou lovest me Lord! Thou lovest me still!