The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit
give by which I pray:
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works
thou art the seed,
That quickens only where thou say’st it may.
Unless Thou shew to us thine own true way
No man can find it:
Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts
into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in
thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou
unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of thee,
And sound
thy praises everlastingly.