I

O praise the wisdom of our God,

And all His matchless love extol;

Who by the anguish of His rod,

Gives healing to the wounded soul.

II

He brought me low because of sin,

And laid His hand upon me sore;

That I might seek by grace to win,

His power to save from sinning more.

III

He brought me low because His love

Was truer than my kindest thought;

For He would lift me far above

The vanities my soul had sought.

IV

And in the darkness I beheld

A light my eyes had never seen;

And all the strife of sin was quelled,

That came my soul and peace between.

V

'Tis good to sink beneath the rod,

And taste the bitterness of sin,

If thus the matchless love of God,

An entrance to the heart may win.

VI

O Jesus Christ, to Thee be praise,

For Thou wert wounded on the tree;—

O may Thy Cross my spirit raise,

And lift me ever nearer Thee.