|WITH joy we meditate the grace
Of our High Priest above;
His heart is made of tenderness,
It overflows with love.
|2||Touched with a sympathy within,
He knows our feeble frame;
He knows what sore temptations mean,
For He has felt the same.
|3||But spotless, innocent, and pure,
The great Redeemer stood,
While Satan’s fiery darts He bore,
And did resist to blood.
|4||He, in the days of feeble flesh,
Poured out His cries and tears;
And, in His measure, feels afresh
What every member bears.
|5||He’ll never quench the smoking flax,
But raise it to a flame:
The bruisèd reed He never breaks,
Nor scorns the meanest name.
|6||Then let our humble faith address
His mercy and His power:
We shall obtain delivering grace
In the distressing hour.
|Isaac Watts, 1674-1748|