Classic Poem

I

Weak in myself, and burden'd too,
Lo here I am, a bruised Reed;
And see th' Almighty Conqu'ror comes,
And I might feel his angry Tread.

II

But, O the condescending Grace,
The humble Pity of his Soul,
He sees the Straw, he sees its State,
Stoops down, supports, and makes it whole.

III

The weak low Music of this Reed,
To his kind Ear is Melody;
Nor will he break the useless Thing,
But tune it for the Choirs on high.

IV

If e'er his Love inflam'd my Breast,
Alas! 'tis just expiring now:
A dying Snuff is all remains,
And furious Storms against it blow.

V

Deep in the Socket of my Heart
The Flame breaks, catches, quivers, dies,
But J ESUS breathes upon the Spark,
And the fresh Oil of Joy supplies.

VI

Angels, thro' all your shining Ranks
Such Tenderness was never known;
The brightest Wonders of his Grace
To our rebellious Race are shown.

VII

But, Angels, ye with Rapture view
That Pity which we Mortals share;
Come then, assist a bruised Reed
E MANUEL'S Praises to declare:

VIII

Low are its Notes, but you can raise
Strains of sublimest Praise above,
Yet your sublimest Strains must fall
Far, far below his matchless Love.