Comfort under Affliction. Zech. 3. 2; 2 Cor. 1. 4

J. Swain                                 8s

How light, while supported by grace,
Are all the afflictions I see,
To those the dear Lord of my peace,
My Jesus, has suffered for me!
To him every comfort I owe,
Above what the fiends have in hell;
And shall I not sing as I go,
That Jesus does everything well?

[That Jesus who stooped from his throne,
To pluck such a brand from the fire.
A wretch that had nought of his own,
Not even a holy desire.
My only inheritance sin,
A slave to rebellion and lust;
Polluted without and within,
A child of corruption and dust.

Such was I when Jesus looked down,
When none but himself could relieve;
What could I expect but a frown?
Yet kindly he smiled, and said, “Live!”
And shall I impatiently fret
And murmur beneath his kind rod?
His love and his mercy forget,
And fly in the face of my God?]

Dear Jesus, preserve me in love,
And teach me on thee to rely;
Give wisdom and strength from above,
Nor let me against thee reply;
Then I thy great name will adore,
And cheerfully bear up the cross,
Nor wish thee to lessen the power
Which purges my conscience from dross.


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