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Hymn 92

John Newton


The bee saved from the spider.


The subtle spider often weaves

His unsuspected snares,

Among the balmy flow’rs and leaves,

To which the bee repairs.

When in his web he sees one hang,

With a malicious joy,

He darts upon it with his fang,

To poison and destroy.

How welcome then, some pitying friend,

To save the threatened bee!

The spider’s treach’rous web to rend,

And set the captive free!

My soul has been in such a case,

When first I knew the LORD,

I hasted to the means of grace,

Where sweets I knew were stored.

Little I thought of danger near,

That soon my joys would ebb;

But ah! I met a spider there,

Who caught me in his web.

Then Satan raised his pois’nous sting,

And aimed his blows at me;

While I, poor helpless trembling thing,

Could neither fight nor flee.

But O! the Savior’s pitying eye

Relieved me from despair;

He saw me at the point to die

And broke the fatal snare.

My case his heedless saints should warn,

Or cheer them if afraid;

May you from me your danger learn,

And where to look for aid.

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