His bloody hand the' oppressor shakes

His bloody hand the' oppressor shakes
Against the faithful seed,
And havoc of Thy church he makes —
He makes us as our Head.

Thy marks we in our bodies bear;
But arm us with Thy power,
The rage of fiends and men we dare,
And meet the evil hour.

They only can our bodies kill,
Our souls can never die;
Our souls exist in Jesus still,
And reign above the sky.

Wherefore the utmost sufferings here
Of those who Jesus love,
We count not worthy to compare
With our reward above.

Light are the pains we now endure,
And quickly over-past;
But O! the pleasures they secure
Eternally shall last.

On all the' affliction we look down,
The joy so far exceeds,
So bright, so weighty is the crown
It sets upon our heads.

O what a glorious life shall be
In us, even us reveal'd,
While face to face our Lord we see,
With all His fulness fill'd!

Who would not then, for such an hope,
The path of sorrow tread,
And take his Master's burden up,
And suffer with his Head?

Who would not cheerfully sustain
A cross so light as this,
And bear a momentary pain
For an eternal bliss?