“Dear Lord, the withered garden in my heart
Lies parched and dead, cursed by the subtilty
Of this beguiling world’s prosperity.
The burdened clouds of heavenly grace depart,
Ere to my dying soul they life impart, –
And I am left in sin’s satiety,
Mocked with the worthless joys of vanity.
Oh, turn Thine eye on me, and let the dart
Of Thy restoring love, with power unspent,
Strike inward, till my quickened life shall show
The fruit of grace divine, whose sweet descent
Shall wake my field. O winds of God, now blow
Till with your breath my grateful praise is blent,
While spices from my garden overflow.”
(J. R. Miller)