I. Watts


WITH joy we meditate the grace

Of our High Priest above;

His heart is made of tenderness,

How bowels melt 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 strong cries and tears,

And in His measure 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 every trying hour.


Icon for the CC0 (Creative Commons Zero) license

To the extent possible under law, Various has waived all copyright and related or neighboring rights to Hymns and Spiritual Songs, except where otherwise noted.