1 No wisdom of man can spy out his heart,
The Lord only can show his hidden part,
Nor yet are men willing to have the truth told,
The sight is too killing for pride to behold.

2 A look from the Lord discovers our case,
And bringeth his word attended with grace;
The man is convicted and feeleth his hell,
And groweth afflicted more than he can tell.

3 If once the sun shines upon a soul clear,
He reads the dark lines which sin has writ there;
Begins to discover his colour and make,
And cries, I’m all over as any fiend black.

4 But when the Lord shows his satisfied face;
And buries our woes in triumphant grace,
This blessed look stilleth the mourner’s complaint,
And with a song filleth the mouth of the saint.

5 Sweet love and sweet shame now hallow his breast;
Yet black is his name, though by his Lord blest;
I am, he says, homely, deformed in each part;
All black, and yet comely, through Jesus’ desert.

6 A look of thy love is all that we want;
Ah! look from above, and give us content.
Looks set us adoring thy person most sweet,
And lay us abhorring ourselves at thy feet.