Lord, when we leave the world and come to thee,
How dull, how slur, are we!
How backward!
How prepost'rous is the motion
Of our ungain devotion!
Our thoughts are millstones, and our souls are lead,
And our desires are dead:
Our vows are fairly promis'd, faintly paid,
Or broken, or not made.
Is the road fair, we loiter; clogged with mire,
We stick or else retire;
A lamb appeals a lion, and we fear
Each bush we see's a bear.
When our dull souls direct our thoughts to thee,
As slow as snails are we;
But at the earth we dart our winged desire,
We burn—we burn like fire!"
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