1 Oh, if my soul was form'd for woe, How would I vent my sighs! Repentance should like rivers flow From both my streaming eyes.
2 'Twas for my sins, my dearest Lord Hung on the cursed tree, And groan'd away a dying life, For thee, my soul, for thee.
3 O how I hate those lusts of mine That crucify'd my God, Those sins that pierc'd and nail'd his flesh Fast to the fatal wood!
4 Yes, my Redeemer, they shall die, My heart has so decreed, Nor will I spare the guilty things That made my Saviour bleed.
5 Whilst with a melting broken heart My murder'd Lord I view, I'll raise revenge against my sins, And slay the murderers too.