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