With joy we meditate the grace

Of our High Priest above;

His heart is made of tenderness,

His bowels melt with love.

Touched with a sympathy within,

He knows our feeble frame;

He knows what sore temptations mean,

For he has felt the same.

But spotless, innocent, and pure,

The great Redeemer stood,

While Satan's fiery darts he bore,

And did resist to blood.

He in the days of feeble flesh

Poured out his 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 deliv'ring grace

In the distressing hour.