8,8,8,8,8,8

tr., John Brownlie

I

I brought my merits to the throne,

And set them forth in order there;

I said, |O Lord, Thy servant own,

And let his brow the garland wear;

The grace and virtue of his life,

He won as victor in the strife.|

II

The song that erstwhile filled the place,

Where high the throne of Christ was set,

Grew faint, as on each pensive face

Joy mixed with pain, and pity met; --

Their song had told the debt they owed,

And how the Christ His grace bestowed.

III

O, silence fell, so sharp and chill, --

My soul to meanness pined and shrank,

Forth went my cry in accent shrill,

|My Lord, have I no grace to thank?|

Its echo dying, lingered, sank,

|My Lord, have I no grace to thank?|

IV

I saw His piercéd hands and side,

I saw the thorn-wounds on His brow, --

|My Lord, forgive my sinful pride,

Accept my sore repentance now;|

Then rose high heaven's adoring prayers,

My grateful song went forth with theirs.