By John Newton
What contradictions meet In ministers’ employ!
It is a bitter sweet, A sorrow full of joy:
No other post affords a place
For equal honor or disgrace.
Who can describe the pain Which faithful preachers feel,
Constrained to speak in vain, To hearts as hard as steel?
Or who can tell the pleasures felt,
When stubborn hearts begin to melt?
The Savior’s dying love, The soul’s amazing worth,
Their utmost efforts move, And draw their bowels forth;
They pray and strive, the rest departs,
Till Christ be formed in sinners’ hearts.
If some small hope appears, They still are not content,
But with a jealous fear, They watch for the event:
Too oft they find their hopes deceived.
Then how their inmost souls are grieved!
But when their pains succeed, And from the tender blade
The ripening ears proceed, Their toils are overpaid:
No harvest-joy can equal theirs,
To find the fruit of all their cares.
On what has now been sown, Thy blessing, Lord, bestow;
The power is Thine alone, To make it spring and grow:
Do Thou the gracious harvest raise,
And Thou alone shalt have the praise.
