"Poor and afflicted," Lord, are thine,

"Poor and afflicted," Lord, are thine,
Among the great unfit to shine;
But, though the world may think it strange,
They would not with the world exchange.

"Poor and afflicted," yes, they are;
Their cup is filled with grief and care;
But he who saved them by his blood,
Makes every sorrow work for good.

"Poor and afflicted;" yet they sing,
For Jesus is their glorious King;
"Through sufferings perfect," now he reigns,
And shares in all their griefs and pains.

"Poor and afflicted;" but ere long
They'll join the bright celestial throng;
Their sufferings then will reach a close,
And heaven afford them sweet repose.

And while they walk the thorny way,
They're often heard to sigh and say,
"Dear Saviour, come; O quickly come,
And take thy mourning pilgrims home."