How light, while supported by grace,

How light, while supported by grace,
Are all the afflictions I see,
To those the dear Lord of my peace,
My Jesus, has suffered for me!
To him every comfort I owe,
Above what the fiends have in hell;
And shall I not sing as I go,
That Jesus does everything well?

That Jesus who stooped from his throne,
To pluck such a brand from the fire.
A wretch that had nought of his own,
Not even a holy desire.
My only inheritance sin,
A slave to rebellion and lust;
Polluted without and within,
A child of corruption and dust.

Such was I when Jesus looked down,
When none but himself could relieve;
What could I expect but a frown?
Yet kindly he smiled, and said, "Live!"
And shall I impatiently fret
And murmur beneath his kind rod?
His love and his mercy forget,
And fly in the face of my God?

Dear Jesus, preserve me in love,
And teach me on thee to rely;
Give wisdom and strength from above,
Nor let me against thee reply;
Then I thy great name will adore,
And cheerfully bear up the cross,
Nor wish thee to lessen the power
Which purges my conscience from dross.