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tr., John Brownlie



O praise the wisdom of our God,

And all His matchless love extol;

Who by the anguish of His rod,

Gives healing to the wounded soul.


He brought me low because of sin,

And laid His hand upon me sore;

That I might seek by grace to win,

His power to save from sinning more.


He brought me low because His love

Was truer than my kindest thought;

For He would lift me far above

The vanities my soul had sought.


And in the darkness I beheld

A light my eyes had never seen;

And all the strife of sin was quelled,

That came my soul and peace between.


'Tis good to sink beneath the rod,

And taste the bitterness of sin,

If thus the matchless love of God,

An entrance to the heart may win.


O Jesus Christ, to Thee be praise,

For Thou wert wounded on the tree;—

O may Thy Cross my spirit raise,

And lift me ever nearer Thee.

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