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 | The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley |  |
LXXXIII. THE SAME.
Hymn 8. John xvi. 1, 2, 3, 4.
[Master, we call Thy word to mind]
Master, we call Thy word to mind,
Thy truth and faithfulness we find
Our sure support, and stay:
The time is come, by Thee foretold,
Like sheep we are to slaughter sold,
And made to wolves a prey.
Thy truth and faithfulness we find
Our sure support, and stay:
The time is come, by Thee foretold,
Like sheep we are to slaughter sold,
And made to wolves a prey.
The world, who take Thy name in vain,
Afflict our shrinking flesh with pain,
Our feeble spirits grieve;
The Christian world with furious zeal,
Out of their synagogues expel,
And murmur that we live.
Afflict our shrinking flesh with pain,
Our feeble spirits grieve;
The Christian world with furious zeal,
Out of their synagogues expel,
And murmur that we live.
They load us with reproach, and shame,
As loathsome heretics disclaim,
And from Thine altars chase;
Assured they do Thee service good,
And merit much, who shed the blood
Of such a poisonous race.
As loathsome heretics disclaim,
And from Thine altars chase;
Assured they do Thee service good,
And merit much, who shed the blood
Of such a poisonous race.
Because our God they have not known,
Nor Thee His meek, pacific Son,
They all these evils do;
Born of the flesh with cruel scorn
They vex us of the Spirit born,
And would to death pursue.
Nor Thee His meek, pacific Son,
They all these evils do;
Born of the flesh with cruel scorn
They vex us of the Spirit born,
And would to death pursue.
260
In every place, in every age,
The restless persecutor's rage
Continues still the same;
Reform'd in show, refined in ill,
The heathen world is heathen still,
And Christian but in name.
The restless persecutor's rage
Continues still the same;
Reform'd in show, refined in ill,
The heathen world is heathen still,
And Christian but in name.
Beneath their anger's utmost weight
We rise, we glory in their hate,
That token of Thy love;
Thou, Lord, hast said, It must be so,
And lo! through great distress we go
To greater joys above.
We rise, we glory in their hate,
That token of Thy love;
Thou, Lord, hast said, It must be so,
And lo! through great distress we go
To greater joys above.
| The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley | |