LORD, what am I, that with unceasing care 
Thou did'st seek after me, that Thou did'st wait 
Wet with unhealthy dews before my gate, 
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? 
Oh, strange delusion, that I did not greet 
Thy blest approach, and oh, to heaven how lost 
If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet. 
 
How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 
"Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see 
How He persists to knock and wait for thee!" 
And oh, how often to that Voice of sorrow, 
"Tomorrow we will open," I replied, 
And when the morrow came I answered still "Tomorrow."