“Pride.”  Prov. 8. 13;  11. 2;  29. 23

J. Hart                        S.M.

Innumerable foes,
Attack the child of God;
He feels within the weight of sin,
A grievous, galling load.

[Temptations, too, without,
Of various kinds, assault;
Sly snares beset his travelling feet,
And make him often halt.

From sinner and from saint
He meets with many a blow;
His own bad heart creates him smart,
Which only God can know.]

But though the host of hell
Be neither weak nor small,
One mighty foe deals wondrous woe,
And hurts beyond them all.

’Tis pride, accursèd pride,
The spirit by God abhorred;
Do what we will, it haunts us still,
And keeps us from the Lord.

[It blows its poisonous breath,
And bloats the soul with air;
The heart uplifts with God’s own gifts,
And makes e’en grace a snare.]

[Awake, nay, while we sleep,
In all we think or speak,
It puffs us glad, torments us sad;
Its hold we cannot break.

In other ills we find
The hand of heaven not slack;
Pride only knows to interpose,
And keep our comforts back.]

[’Tis hurtful when perceived;
When not perceived, ’tis worse;
Unseen or seen, it dwells within,
And works by fraud or force.]

[Against its influence pray,
It mingles with the prayer;
Against it preach, it prompts the speech;
Be silent, still ’tis there.]

[In every outward act,
In every thought within,
The heart it draws to seek applause,
And mixes all with sin.]

Thou meek and lowly Lamb,
This haughty tyrant kill,
That wounded thee, though thou wast free,
And grieves thy Spirit still.

Our condescending God,
(To whom else shall we go?)
Remove our pride, whate’er betide,
And lay and keep us low.

[Thy garden is the place
Where pride cannot intrude;
For should it dare to enter there,
’Twould soon be drowned in blood.]

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