1 Innumerable foes
Attack the child of God,
He feels within the weight of sin,
A grievous galling load.
2 Temptations too without,
Of various kinds assault,
Sly snares best his trav'ling feet,
And often make him halt.
3 From sinner and from saint
He meets with many a blow;
His own bad heart, creates him smart,
Which only God can know.
4 But though the hosts of hell,
Be neither weak nor small,
One mighty foe, deals dangerous woe,
And hurts beyond them all.
5 'Tis pride, accursed pride,
That spir't by God abhorr'd;
Do what we will, it haunts us still,
And keeps us from the Lord.
6 It blows its pois'nous breath,
And bloats the soul with air;
The heart uplifts with God's own gifts,
And makes e'en grace a snare.
7 Awake, nay while we sleep,
In all we think or speak,
It puffs us glad, torments us sad,
Its hold we cannot break.
8 In other ills we find
The hand of heav'n not slack;
Pride only knows to interpose,
And keep our comforts back.
9 'Tis hurtful when perceiv'd,
When unperceiv'd 'tis worse;
Unseen or seen, it dwells within,
And works by fraud or force.
10 Against its influence pray,
It mingles with the pray'r,
Against it preach, it prompts the speech;
Be silent, still 'tis there.
11 This moment while I write.
I feel its pow'r within;
My heart it draws, to seek applause,
And mixes all with sin.
12 Thou meek and lowly Lamb,
This hungry tyrant kill
That woundest thee, tho' thou wast free,
And grieves thy spirit still.
13 Our condescending God,
To whom else can we go,
Remove our pride whate'er betide,
And lay and keep us low.
14 Thy garden is the place,
Where pride cannot intrude;
For should it dare to enter there,
'Twould soon be drown'd in blood.
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