_Psalm 41._ (819)
Blest is the man whose heart doth move,
And melt with pity to the poor;
Whose soul, by sympathizing love,
Feels what his fellow-saints endure.
2 His heart contrives, for their relief,
More good than his own hands can do;
He, in the time of general grief,
Shall find the Lord has pity too.
3 His soul shall live secure on earth,
With secret blessings on his head,
When drought, and pestilence, and dearth
Around him multiply their dead.
4 Or, if he languish on his couch,
God will pronounce his sins forgiven,
Will save him with a healing touch,
Or take his willing soul to heaven.
Isaac Watts. 1719.