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My God! my God! and can it be
that I should sin so lightly now,
and think no more of evil thoughts
than of the wind that waves the bough?
I walk the earth with lightsome step,
smile at the sunshine, breathe the air,
do my own will, nor ever heed
Gethsemane and thy long prayer.
Shall it be always thus, O Lord?
Wilt thou not work this hour in me
the grace thy passion merited,
hatred of self, and love of thee!
Ever when tempted, make me see,
beneath the olive's moon-pierced shade,
my God, alone, outstretched, and bruised,
and bleeding, on the earth he made;
and make me feel it was my sin,
as though no other sins there were,
that was to him who bears the world
a load that he could scarcely bear.