“Blessed be ye poor.” Luke 6. 20; Matt. 5. 3
J. Hart L.M.
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;
In my own breast I look and read
Accounts so very different there,
That, had I not thy blood to plead,
Each sight would sink me to despair.
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.
I feel my fainting spirits droop;
My wretched leanness I deplore;
Till gladdened with a gleam of hope
From this, The Lord has blessed the poor.
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.
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.