With Joy We Meditate The Grace
Of Our High-Priest Above;
His Heart Is Made Of Tenderness,
His Bowels Yearn With Love.
Touched With A Sympathy Within,
He Knows Our Feeble Frame;
He Knows What Sore Temptations Mean,
For He Hath Felt The Same.
He In The Days Of Feeble Flesh
Poured Out His Cries And Tears;
And, Though Exalted, Feels Afresh
What Every Member Bears.
He’ll Never Quench The Smoking Flax,
But Raise It To A Flame;
The Bruised Reed He Never Breaks,
Nor Scorns The Meanest Name.
Then Let Our Humble Faith Address
His Mercy And His Power:
We Shall Obtain Delivering Grace
In The Distressing Hour.
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