The very hairs of your head are all numbered. Matthew 10:30
Words: Charles Wesley (1707–1788). Appeared in The Unpublished Poetry of Charles Wesley, by S. T. Kimbrough, Jr., & Oliver A. Beckerlegge (Nashville, Tennessee: Abingdon Press, 1992), pages 169–70. In Wesley’s manuscript, the hymn had this note:
Thanksgiving for one narrowly escaped assassination—Mr. Thomas Stokes.
If you know where to get a good photo of Miller (head & shoulders, at least 200×300 pixels),
Let every tongue my Savior praise
Who for His servant cares,
And watches over all my ways,
And numbers all my hairs;
In danger’s unsuspected hour
Who hides my life above,
And saves from the destroyer’s power
The object of His love.
Thou only dost the rage restrain
Of my infernal foe,
And armed with death, beyond his chain
Th’assassin cannot go;
The fatal weapon cannot speed—
A wall of brass withstands,
And angels hover round my head,
And bear me in their hands.
A bird escaped the fowler’s snare,
A brand out of the fire,
My kind Deliverer I declare,
My guardian God admire;
A pledge of greater mercies still
My ransomed life receive,
And live to serve Thy blessèd will,
And to Thy glory live.
For this Thou didst my soul allure
With early tastes of grace,
In health preserve, in sickness cure,
And rescue in distress:
For this Thou hast my manners borne,
And spared from year to year,
Nor let me quite to sin return,
Or quite throw off Thy fear.
I now as from the grave restored,
By miracle divine,
Enter into Thy counsel, Lord,
And answer Thy design;
For heavenly joys at last compelled
With earthly things to part,
Lover of souls, I yield, I yield,
I give Thee all my heart!