Classic Poem

With joy we meditate the grace
Of our High Priest above,
His heart is made of tenderness,
His bowels melt with love.

Touch'd with a sympathy within,
He knows our feeble frame,
He knows how sore our woes have been,
For he has felt the same.

He, in the days of feeble flesh,
Pour'd out his cries and tears,
And in his measure feels afresh,
Each member's griefs and fears.

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 pow'r,
We shall obtain deliv'ring grace
In each distressing hour.