Isaac Watts · 488 of 724

Hymn 130

Now by the bowels of my God, His sharp distress, his sore complaints, By his last groans, his dying blood, I charge my soul to love the saints.

Clamor, and wrath, and war, begone, Envy and spite, for ever cease; Let bitter words no more be known Amongst the saints, the sons of peace.

The Spirit, like a peaceful dove, Flies from the realms of noise and strife: Why should we vex and grieve his love Who seals our souls to heav'nly life?

Tender and kind be all our thoughts, Through all our lives let mercy run; So God forgives our num'rous faults, For the dear sake of Christ his Son.