Blest is the man whose bow­els move,
And melt with pi­ty to the poor,
Whose soul by sym­pa­thiz­ing love,
Feels what his fel­low saints en­dure.

His heart con­trives for their re­lief
More good than his own hands can do;
He in the time of ge­ne­ral grief,
Shall find the Lord has bow­els, too.

His soul shall live se­cure on earth,
With sec­ret bless­ings on his head,
When drought, and pes­ti­lence and death
Around him mul­ti­ply their dead.

Or if he lang­uish on his couch,
God will pro­nounce his sins for­giv’n;
Will save him with a heal­ing touch,
Or take his will­ing soul to Heav’n.