Philip Stanhope Worsley (1831–1866)

OUT of the deeps how often hath my cry

Gone up to God on the wild wings of prayer!

Even so often hath He deigned to hear;

So often hath He said—Thou shalt not die;

So often—Stand upon thy feet once more;

So often—Serve Me better than before.

But I, the river of my pain being past,

Slighted His Succour Who had borne me through,

Daily deferring the sweet service due,

Till seem’d that Mercy’s self might scarce refrain

Her patient hands from vengeance at the last.

But Thee, still seeking Thy reluctant Sheep

’Mid thorny-tangled brakes that pierce Thee deep,

Iron ingratitude repels in vain.