314    S.M.     J. Hart
“O wretched man that I am.” Rom. 7. 13-24

1 How sore a plague is sin,
  To those by whom ’tis felt!
  The Christian cries, “Unclean, unclean!”
  E’en though released from guilt.

2 O wretched, wretched man!
  I find, alas! do all I can,
  That I can nothing do.

3 When good I would perform,
  Through fear or shame I stop,
  Corruption rises like a storm,
  And blasts the promised crop.

4 [Of peace if I’m in quest,
  Or love my thoughts engage,
  Envy and anger in my breast
  That moment rise and rage.]

5 [When for a humble mind
  To God I pour my prayer,
  I look into my heart, and find
  That pride will still be there.]

6 How long, dear Lord, how long
  Deliverance must I seek;
  And fight with foes so very strong,
  Myself so very weak?

7 I’ll bear the unequal strife,
  And wage the war within;
  Since death, that puts an end to life,
  Shall put an end to sin.