Love and Hatred

Now by the bowels of my God,
His sharp distress, his sore complaints,

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.

Phil. 2:2; Eph. 4:30

Isaac Watts