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.