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.