King of Mercy, King of Love,
In whom I live, in whom I move,
Perfect what Thou has begun,
Let no night put out this Sun.
Grant I may, my chief desire,
Long for Thee, to Thee aspire.
Let my youth, my bloom of days,
Be my comfort, and Thy praise;
That hereafter, when I look
O’er the sullied, sinful book,
I may find Thy hand therein
Wiping out my shame and sin.
O! it is Thy only art
To reduce a stubborn heart:
And since Thine is victory,
Strongholds should belong to Thee.
Lord, then take it, leave it not
Unto my dispose or lot;
But since I would not have it mine,
O my God, let it be Thine.