The Smoaking Flax

THat Soul, O Lord, in whom's begun
The blessed work of Grace,
Tho' he may droop, and broken be,
Yet shall behold thy face.

The feeble and desponding Soul
That's like a bruised Reed,
Thou wilt. Lord, take pity upon,
And soon supply his need.

Altho' he's like to smoaking Flax,
Where little fire is seen;
Yet he shall see that work go on
Which shall destroy his sin.

Grace at the first seems to be small,
Which makes the Soul to doubt,
That in him there is none at all,
Yet thou wilt bring him out

Of all his fears, and he shall have
A glorious victory,
And triumph shall in Songs of Praise
To all eternity.