875    L.M.     J. Hart
“My leanness, my leanness!” Isa. 24. 16; 32. 15

1 Jesus, to thee I make my moan;
  My doleful tale I tell to thee;
  For thou canst help, and thou alone,
  A lifeless lump of sin like me.

2 Fain would I find increase of faith;
  Fain would I see fresh graces bloom;
  But ah! my heart’s a barren heath,
  Blasted with cold, and black with gloom.

3 True, thou hast kindly given me light;
  I know what Christians ought to be;
  But did the blind receive their sight
  Nothing but dismal things to see?

4 Though winter waste the earth awhile,
  Spring soon revives the verdant meads;
  The ripening fields in summer smile,
  And autumn with rich crops succeeds;

5 But I from month to month complain;
  I feel no warmth; no fruits I see;
  I look for life, but dead remain:
  ’Tis winter all the year with me.

6 [Yet sin’s rank weeds within me live;
  Barrenness is not all I bear;
  I do not so for nothing grieve:
  Alas! there’s worse than nothing there.]

7 Still on thy promise I’ll rely,
  From whom alone my fruit is found,
  Until the Spirit from on high
  Enrich the dry and barren ground.