Classic Poem

God counts the sorrows of his saints,
Their groans affect his ears;
Thou hast a book for my complaints,
A bottle for my tears.

When to thy throne I raise my cry,
The wicked fear and flee;
So swift is pray'r to reach the sky,
So near is God to me.

In thee, Most Holy, Just, and True,
I have repos'd my trust;
Nor will I fear what man can do,
The offspring of the dust.

Thy solemn vows are on me, Lord!
Thou shalt receive my praise;
I'll sing “How faithful is thy word,
How righteous all thy ways!”

Thou hast secur'd my soul from death,
Oh! set the pris'ner free;
That heart and hand, and life and breath,
May be employ'd for thee.