tr., John Brownlie

I

I brought my merits to the throne,

And set them forth in order there;

I said, "O Lord, Thy servant own,

And let his brow the garland wear;

The grace and virtue of his life,

He won as victor in the strife."

II

The song that erstwhile filled the place,

Where high the throne of Christ was set,

Grew faint, as on each pensive face

Joy mixed with pain, and pity met; --

Their song had told the debt they owed,

And how the Christ His grace bestowed.

III

O, silence fell, so sharp and chill, --

My soul to meanness pined and shrank,

Forth went my cry in accent shrill,

"My Lord, have I no grace to thank?"

Its echo dying, lingered, sank,

"My Lord, have I no grace to thank?"

IV

I saw His piercéd hands and side,

I saw the thorn-wounds on His brow, --

"My Lord, forgive my sinful pride,

Accept my sore repentance now;"

Then rose high heaven's adoring prayers,

My grateful song went forth with theirs.