The Importunate Widow
Our Lord, who knows full well
The heart of every saint;
Invites us, by a parable,
To pray and never faint.
He bows his gracious ear,
We never plead in vain;
Yet we must wait, till he appear,
And pray, and pray again.
Though unbelief suggest,
Why should we longer wait?
He bids us never give him rest,
But be importunate.
’Twas thus a widow poor,
Without support or friend,
Beset the unjust judge’s door,
And gained, at last, her end.
For her he little cared,
As little for the laws;
Nor God, nor man, did he regard,
Yet he espoused her cause.
She urged him day and night,
Would no denial take;
At length he said, I’ll do her right,
For my own quiet sake.
And shall not Jesus hear
His chosen, when they cry?
Yes, though he may awhile forbear,
He’ll help them from on high.
His nature, truth and love,
Engage him on their side;
When they are grieved, his bowels move,
And can they be denied?
Then let us earnest be,
And never faint in prayer;
He loves our importunity,
And makes our cause his care.
