Precious Bi­ble! what a trea­sure
Does the Word of God af­ford?
All I want for life or plea­sure,
Food and me­di­cine, shield and sword:
Let the world ac­count me poor,
Having this I need no more.

Food to which the world’s a stran­ger,
Here my hun­gry soul en­joys;
Of ex­cess there is no dan­ger,
Though it fills, it ne­ver cloys:
On a dy­ing Christ I feed,
He is meat and drink in­deed.

When my faith is faint and sick­ly,
Or when Sa­tan wounds my mind,
Cordials, to re­vive me quick­ly,
Healing me­di­cines here I find:
To the pro­mises I flee,
Each af­fords a re­me­dy.

In the hour of dark temp­ta­tion
Satan can­not make me yield;
For the Word of con­so­la­tion
Is to me a migh­ty shield
While the Scrip­ture truths are sure,
From his mal­ice I’m se­cure.

Vain his threats to ov­er­come me,
When I take the Spir­it’s sword;
Then with ease I drive him from me.
Satan trem­bles at the word:
’Tis a sword for con­quest made,
Keen the edge, and strong the blade.

Shall I en­vy then the mi­ser
Doting on his gold­en store?
Sure I am, or should be, wis­er,
I am rich, ’tis he is poor:
Jesus gives me in His word,
Food and me­di­cine, shield and sword.