For a Sick Friend

Most meek, and tender-hearted Lamb,
Jesus, we call on Thy dear name,
Nor shall we call in vain;
In Thee we have not an high-priest
Who cannot be like us distress'd,
For God-with-us is man.

Thcu feelest all the woes we feel,
A sufferer in Thy members still,
A man of griefs Thou art:
And now Thou dost the sickness bear
Of him, for whom we make our prayer,
And pour out all our heart.

Still, gracious Lord, delight to shed
Thy blessings on his favourite head,
Thy choicest blessings shower;
Preserve his mind in perfect peace,
And when his sufferings most increase,
O let his joys be more.

Give him Thy meek and quiet mind,
Patient, and perfectly resign'd
In all things let him be,
Nothing desire above, beneath,
Nor ease, nor pain, nor life, nor death,
But to be all like Thee.

Yet for Thy desolate Sion sake,
Ah! do not now receive him back
To Thy celestial choir:
A burning and a shining light,
Detain him in our land of night,
To set the world on fire.

Jesu, approach, and touch his hand,
(We ask in faith,) and now command
The fever to depart;
Now bid him in Thine image rise,
Possess'd of his high calling's prize,
A pure and perfect heart.