O THAT I knew the secret place,

I’d tell Him how my sins arise, What sorrows I sustain; How grace decays and comfort dies, And leaves my heart in pain.

He knows what arguments I’d take To wrestle with my God; I’d plead for His own mercy’s sake, And for my Saviour’s blood.

My God will pity my complaints, And heal my broken bones; He takes the meaning of His saints, The language of their groans.

Arise, my soul, from deep distress, And banish every fear; He calls you to His throne of grace To spread your sorrows there.