|Text:||Blessed be ye Poor|
1 Lord, when I hear thy Children talk,
(And I believe 'tis often true)
How with Delight thy Ways they walk,
And gladly thy Commandments do.
2 In my own Breast I look, and read
Accounts so very diff'rent there,
That had I not thy Blood to plead,
Each Sight would sink me to Despair.
3 Needy, and naked, and unclean,
Empty of Good, and full of Ill,
A lifeless Lump of loathsome Sin,
Without the Power to act or will.
4 I feel my fainting Spirits droop;
My wretched Leanness I deplore,
'Till gladden'd with a Gleam of Hope
From this, "The Lord has bless'd the Poor."
5 Then while I make my secret Moan,
Upwards I cast my Eyes and see,
Though I have Nothing of my own,
My Treasure is immense in Thee.
6 Still may I keep thy Love in View,
Lean there; nor envy those that run;
Still trust to--not what I can do,
But what thyself hast for me done.
7 My Treasure is thy precious Blood
Fix there my Heart: And for the rest,
Under thy forming Hands, my God,
Give me that Frame which thou lik'st best.
|First Line:||Lord, when I hear thy Children talk|
|Title:||Blessed be ye Poor|