Verse 1
The sport of his own creatures made,
He suffers it, our pride to cure,
That strengthned by his Spirit’s aid
Contempt with patience to endure,
We never may of wrong complain,
But meekly in his footsteps tread,
Loaded with scorn, opprest with pain,
Conform’d in all things to our Head.
Verse 2
The lion might have torn his foes
By the sole motion of his will,
But Meekness no resistance knows,
But Love can only pity feel:
He doth his church with grace supply,
That I baptiz’d into his name,
Arm’d with his mind, may live and die
A follower of the patient Lamb.