I. Watts
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.