1 By the thoughtless world derided,
Still I love the word of God;
'Tis the crook by which I'm guided,
Often 'tis a chastening rod.
'Tis a sword that cuts asunder
All my pride and vanity,
When abased I lie, and wonder
That he spares a wretch like me.

2 This confirms me when I waver,
Sets my trembling judgment right;
When I stray, how much soever,
This is my restoring light:
Satan oft, and sin, assail me
With temptations ever new;
Then there's nothing can avail me,
Till my bleeding Lord I view.

3 Faith I need; O Lord, bestow it,
Give my labouring mind relief;
Oft, alas! I doubt, I know it,
Help, oh help my unbelief.
Dearest Saviour, by Thy merit
May I gain a future crown;
Guide, oh guide me by Thy Spirit,
Till these storms are overblown.