WITH joy we meditate the grace Of our High-priest above; His heart is made of...

WITH joy we meditate the grace Of our High-priest above; His heart is made of tenderness, His bowels yearn with love.

Touched with a sympathy within, He knows our feeble frame; He knows what sore temptations mean, For he hath felt the same.

He in the days of feeble flesh Poured out his cries and tears; And, though exalted, feels afresh What every member bears.

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 power: We shall obtain delivering grace In the distressing hour.