740    L.M.     J. Hart
“Blessed be ye poor.” Luke 6. 20; Matt. 5. 3

1 Lord, when I hear thy children talk,
  (And I believe ’tis often true),
  How with delight thy ways they walk,
  And gladly thy commandments do;

2 In my own breast I look and read
  Accounts so very different there,
  That, had I not thy blood to plead,
  Each sight would sink me to despair.

3 Needy, and naked, and unclean,
  Empty of good, and full of ill,
  A lifeless lump of loathsome sin,
  Without the power to act or will.

4 I feel my fainting spirits droop;
  My wretched leanness I deplore;
  Till gladdened with a gleam of hope
  From this, The Lord has blessed the poor.

5 Then, while I make my secret moan,
  Upwards I cast my eyes, and see,
  Though I have nothing of my own,
  My treasure is immense in thee.

6 My treasure is thy precious blood;
  Fix there my heart, and for the rest,
  Under thy forming hands, my God,
  Give me that frame which thou lik’st best.