A Prayer

My God (oh, let me call Thee mine,
Weak, wretched sinner though I be),
My trembling soul would fain be Thine;
My feeble faith still clings to Thee.

Not only for the Past I grieve,
The Future fills me with dismay;
Unless Thou hasten to relieve,
Thy suppliant is a castaway.

I cannot say my faith is strong,
I dare not hope my love is great;
But strength and love to Thee belong;
Oh, do not leave me desolate!

I know I owe my all to Thee;
Oh, TAKE the heart I cannot give!
Do Thou my strength--my Saviour be,
And MAKE me to Thy glory live.

by Anne Brontë

Comments (1)

She speaks for so many of us- -regrets are the very devil and it is difficult to feel forgiven for things done. She pleads for God's strength here to be handiwork. Great poem going on my fav list.10