Blest Is the Man Whose Bowels Move

Blest is the man whose bow­els move

And melt with pi­ty to the poor

Whose soul by sym­pa­thiz­ing love

Feels what his fel­low saints en­dure.

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 bow­els

too.

His soul shall live se­cure on earth

With sec­ret bless­ings on his head

When drought

and pes­ti­lence and death

Around him mul­ti­ply their dead.

Or if he lang­uish on his couch

God will pro­nounce his sins for­giv’n;

Will save him with a heal­ing touch

Or take his will­ing soul to Heav’n.