This little Book I'd rather own,
Than all the gold and gemsThat e'er in monarchs' coffee shone -
Than all their diadems:Nay, were the seas one chrysolite,
The earth a golden ball.And diamonds all the stars of night,
This Book were worth them all.
His blood-wrung spoils must gleam,When death's uplifted hand is nigh,
His life - a vanish'd dream;Then hear him, with his grasping breath,
For one poor moment crave -Fool! would'st thou stay the arm of death?
Ask of thy gold to save!
No, no, the soul ne'er found relief
In glittering hoards of wealth;Gems dazzle not the eye of grief,
Gold cannot purchase health:But here a blessed balm appears,
To heal the deepest wo;And he that seeks his Book in tears,
His tears shall cease to flow.
Here He who died on Calvary's tree,
Hath made that promise blest,"Ye heavy laden, come to me,
And I will give you rest;A bruised reed I will not break,
A contrite heart despise;My burden's light, and all who take
My yoke, shall win the skies."