Oh if my soul were formed for woe,
How would I vent my sighs?
Repentance should like rivers flow
From both my streaming eyes.
‘Twas for my sins my dearest Lord hung on the cursed tree,
And groaned away His dying life,
For thee, my soul, for thee.
Oh shall not warmer accents tell
The gratitude we owe
To him who died, our fears to quell,
And save from death and woe.