Man. SWEETEST Saviour, if my soul 
   Were but worth the having, 
Quickly should I then control 
   Any thought of waving. 
But when all my care and pains 
Cannot give the name of gains 
To Thy wretch so full of stains, 
What delight or hope remains? 

Saviour. What, child, is the balance thine, 
   Thine the poise and measure? 
If I say, 'Thou shalt be Mine,' 
   Finger not My treasure. 
What the gains in having thee 
Do amount to, only He 
Who for man was sold can see; 
That transferr'd th' accounts to Me. 

Man. But as I can see no merit 
   Leading to this favour, 
So the way to fit me for it 
   Is beyond my savour. 
As the reason, then, is Thine, 
So the way is none of mine; 
I disclaim the whole design; 
Sin disclaims and I resign. 

Saviour. That is all: if that I could 
   Get without repining; 
And My clay, My creature, would 
   Follow My resigning; 
That as I did freely part 
With My glory and desert, 
Left all joys to feel all smart---- 

Man. Ah, no more! Thou break'st my heart!