I. Watts

C.M.

WITH joy we meditate the grace

Of our High Priest above;

His heart is made of tenderness,

How bowels melt with love.

2

Touched with a sympathy within,

He knows our feeble frame;

He knows what sore temptations mean,

For He hath felt the same.

3

He in the days of feeble flesh,

Poured out strong cries and tears,

And in His measure feels afresh

What every member bears.

4

He’ll never quench the smoking flax,

But raise it to a flame:

The bruised reed He never breaks,

Nor scorns the meanest name.

5

Then let our humble faith address

His mercy and His power;

We shall obtain delivering grace

In every trying hour.