Poems and hymns seem to capture thought and emotion in a way that prose and profuse written ambling (like mine) never can. So I revert to them when abundance of words fails. This was written by Issac Watts, a gifted and prolific hymn writer of the 1700’s:
Oh that I knew the secret place where I might find my God!
I’d spread my wants before His face and pour my woes abroad.
I’d tell Him how my sins arise, what sorrows I sustain;
How grace decays and comfort dies, and leaves my heart in pain.
He know what arguments I’d take to wrestle with my God;
I’d plead for His own mercy’s sake, and for my Saviours’ blood.
My God will pity my complaints, and heal my broken bones;
He takes the meaning of His saints, the language of their groans.
Arise, my soul, from deep distress, and banish every fear;
He calls thee to His throne of grace to spread thy sorrows there!