When first to make my heart his own,
The Lord revealed his mighty grace;
Self reigned, like Dagon, on the throne,
But could not long maintain its place.
It fell, and owned the pow’r divine,
Grace can with ease the vict’ry gain
But soon this wretched heart of mine,
Contrived to set it up again.
Again the Lord his name proclaimed,
And brought the hateful idol low;
Then self, like Dagon, broken, maimed,
Seemed to receive a mortal blow.
Yet self is not of life bereft,
Nor ceases to oppose his will;
Though but a maimed stump be left,
‘Tis Dagon, ’tis an idol still.
Lord! must I always guilty prove,
And idols in my heart have room?
Oh! let the, fire of heavenly love,
The very slump of self consume.