Hymn CCXCVII. Long Metre. Blessed are the Poor in Spirit

Ye humble souls complain no more, Let faith survey your future store, How happy, how divinely blest, The sacred words of truth attest.

When conscious grief laments sincere And pours the penitential tear; Hope points to your dejected eyes, A bright reversion in the skies.

In vain the sons of wealth and pride Despise your lot, your hopes deride; In vain they boast their little stores, Trifles are theirs, a kingdom yours.

A kingdom, of immense delight, Where health and peace and joy unite; A kingdom which shall ne'er decay Tho' earthly kingdoms fade away.

There shall your eyes with rapture view The glorious friend, who dy'd for you; Who dy'd to ransom, dy'd to raise To crowns of joy and songs of praise.

Jesus, to thee I breathe my prayer, Confirm to me, my interest there; Whatever be my lot below, This, this my soul desires to know.

O let me hear thy voice divine, Pronounce the glorious blessing mine; Enroll'd among thy happy poor, My largest wishes ask no more.