22
P. M.
The word more precious than gold.
Precious Bible! what a treasure
Does the word of God afford!
All I want for life or pleasure,
Food and med’cine, shield and sword:
Let the world account me poor,
Having this I need no more.
2 Food to which the world’s a stranger,
Here my hungry soul enjoys;
Of excess there is no danger—
Though it fills, it never cloys:
On a dying Christ I feed,
He is meat and drink indeed!
3 When my faith is faint and sickly,
Or when Satan wounds my mind;
Cordials to revive me quickly,
Healing med’cines here I find:
To the promises I flee,
Each affords a remedy.
4 In the hour of dark temptation,
Satan can not make me yield;
For the word of consolation
Is to me a mighty shield:
While the scripture truths are sure,
From his malice I’m secure.
5 Vain his threats to overcome me,
When I take the Spirit’s sword;
Then, with ease, I drive him from me;
Satan trembles at the word:
’Tis a sword for conquest made,
Keen the edge, and strong the blade.
6 Shall I envy, then, the miser,
Doating on his golden store?
Sure I am, or should be, wiser;
I am rich—’tis he is poor:
Jesus gives me in his word,
Food and med’cine, shield and sword.
Newton.