Honey though the bee prepares

Vanity of the creature sanctified by John Newton


 * Honey though the bee prepares,
 * An envenomed sting he wears;
 * Piercing thorns a guard compose
 * Round the fragrant blooming rose.


 * Where we think to find a sweet,
 * Oft a painful sting we meet:
 * When the rose invites our eye,
 * We forget the thorn is nigh.


 * Why are thus our hopes beguiled?
 * Why are all our pleasures spoiled?
 * Why do agony and woe
 * From our choicest comforts grow?


 * Sin has been the cause of all!
 * 'Twas not thus before the fall:
 * What but pain, and thorn, and sting,
 * From the root of sin can spring?


 * Now with every good we find
 * Vanity and grief entwined;
 * What we feel, or what we fear,
 * All our joys embitter here.


 * Yet, through the Redeemer's love,
 * These afflictions blessings prove;
 * He the wounding stings and thorns,
 * Into healing med'cines turns.


 * From the earth our hearts they wean,
 * Teach us on his arm to lean;
 * Urge us to a throne of grace,
 * Make us seek a resting place.


 * In the mansions of our King
 * Sweets abound without a sting;
 * Thornless there the roses blow,
 * And the joys unmingled flow.