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 gen'ral 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 dearth

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.