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Poem by Anne Brontë
My God (oh, let me call Thee mine, Weak, wretched sinner though I be), My trembling soul would fain be Thine; My feeble faith still clings to Thee. Not only for the Past I grieve, The Future fills me with dismay; Unless Thou hasten to relieve, Thy suppliant is a castaway. I cannot say my faith is strong, I dare not hope my love is great; But strength and love to Thee belong; Oh, do not leave me desolate! I know I owe my all to Thee; Oh, TAKE the heart I cannot give! Do Thou my strength--my Saviour be, And MAKE me to Thy glory live.
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