Hymn 58
The New Convert
The New Convert
The new-born child of gospel-grace,
Like some fair tree when summer’s nigh,
Beneath Emmanuel’s shining face,
Lifts up his blooming branch on high.
No fears he feels, he sees no foes,
No conflict yet his faith employs,
Nor has he learnt to whom he owes,
The strength and peace his soul enjoys.
But sin soon darts its cruel sting,
And, comforts sinking day by day,
What seem’d his own, a self-fed spring,
Proves but a brook that glides away.
When Gideon arm’d his num’rous host,
The Lord soon made his numbers less;
And said, lest Israel vainly boast,
„My arm procur’d me this success.”
Thus will he bring our spirits down,
And draw our ebbing comforts low;
That sav’d by grace, but not our own,
We may not claim the praise we owe.