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VIII

10,10,10,10

Now with my weeping would I cleanse my soul,

And with my grief would shame my sin away;

But tears no virtue have to make me whole,

Nor sorrow power to end sin's hateful sway.

But yet the heart in sore distress that sighs,

Looks to the Christ His succour to impart;

And God receives the pleasing sacrifice,

A broken spirit, and a contrite heart.

Nailed to the Cross I see my Saviour bleed;

This is the sacrifice my soul requires,

Here is the cleansing, and the strength I need,

To quell the rising of my vain desires.

Speak to my heart, O Jesus Christ Who came

Fired by Thy love, an offering for sin;

And by a love enkindled at that flame,

Win me for ever from the self within.

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