Here, Lord, I lie: have mercy on my soul.
My wounds from time were more than time could heal.
Grace had I none, nor health, till I could feel
These old wounds die, and your wounds mine control.

Then I was fresh washed as in a bowl.
I closed my eyes, that you might break the seal,
Then clearly saw the ransom you reveal,
Richer than all the treasures which I stole.

Take from this vault whatever wealth is more
Than just suffices to be blest and bless.
Like the grown child the ungrateful city bore,
Rebuked for faults and clothed in his distress,
If I give all, that gift you can restore,
And I must always grieve if I give less.

Vernon Watkins