What a perplexing wild
Is self-delusion's art!
Who by himself is unbeguil'd?
Who traces all his heart?

To thee, O Lord, alone
The myst'ry lies reveal'd.
Our windings all to thee are known,
And not a thought conceal'd.

With self-applauses vain,
Few of our faults we see:
And for those few we fondly feign
Some self-excusing plea.

Lord, search me, prove me through
By discipline severe:
And to myself my spirit shew,
From all disguises clear.

If seeds of guilt and woe
Are cherish'd in my breast;
Or if my feet unthinking go
In paths by thee unbless'd;

Expell the latent foes,
My quick return befriend.
O lead me in the way which knows
No bitterness nor end.