With Joy We Meditate the Grace

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 bruis­èd reed He nev­er breaks

Nor scorns the mean­est name.

Then let our hum­ble faith ad­dress

His mer­cy and His pow­er;

We shall ob­tain de­liv­er­ing grace

In the dis­tress­ing hour.