Hymn 56
John Newton
7,7,7,7
Vanity of the creature sanctified.
Honey though the bee prepares, An envenomed sting he wears; Piercing thorns a guard compose Round the fragrant blooming rose. | Where we think to find a sweet, Oft a painful sting we meet: When the rose invites our eye, We forget the thorn is nigh. | Why are thus our hopes beguiled? Why are all our pleasures spoiled? Why do agony and woe From our choicest comforts grow? | Sin has been the cause of all! ’Twas not thus before the fall: What but pain, and thorn, and sting, From the root of sin can spring? | Now with every good we find Vanity and grief entwined; What we feel, or what we fear, All our joys embitter here. | Yet, through the Redeemer’s love, These afflictions blessings prove; 72 He the wounding stings and thorns, Into healing med’cines turns. | From the earth our hearts they wean, Teach us on his arm to lean; Urge us to a throne of grace, Make us seek a resting place. | In the mansions of our King Sweets abound without a sting; Thornless there the roses blow, And the joys unmingled flow. | |