* * *
Ye simple souls that stray Far from the path of peace, That lonely, unfrequented way To life and happiness, Why will ye folly love, And throng the downward road, And hate the wisdom from above, And mock the sons of God? Madness and misery Ye count our life beneath; And nothing great or good can see, Or glorious, in our death: As only born to grieve, Beneath your feet we lie; And utterly contemned we live, And unlamented die. So wretched and obscure, The men whom ye despise, So foolish, impotent, and poor, Above your scorn we rise: We, through the Holy Ghost, Can witness better things; For He whose blood is all our boast Hath made us priests and kings. Riches unsearchable In Jesu's love we know; And pleasures, springing from the well Of life, our souls o'erflow; The Spirit we receive Of wisdom, grace, and power; And always sorrowful we live, Rejoicing evermore. Angels our servants are, And keep in all our ways, And in their watchful hands they bear The sacred souls of grace; Unto that heavenly bliss They all our steps attend; And God himself our Father is, And Jesus is our friend. With him we walk in white, We in his image shine, Our robes are robes of glorious light, Our righteousness divine; On all the kings of earth With pity we look down, And claim, in virtue of our birth, A never-fading crown.
Charles Wesley’s other poems:
