Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord,
Thy mercy set me free;
Whilst in the confidence of prayer,
My soul took hold on thee.
For though in dreadful whirls we hung,
High on the broken wave,
I knew thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.
The storm was laid, the winds retir'd
Obedient to thy will:
The sea, that roar'd at thy command,
At thy command was still.
In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness I'll adore ;
And praise thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.
My life, if thou preserv'st my life,
Thy sacrifice shall be ;
And death, if death must be my doom, Shall join my soul to thee.
As when the weary trav'ller gains
The height of some o'erlooking hill,
His heart revives, if cross the plains
He eyes his home, though distant still.
While he surveys the much-lov'd spot, He slights the space that lies between ; His past fatigues are now forgot, Because his journey's end is seen.
Thus, when the Christian pilgrim views,
By faith, his mansion in the skies,
The sight his fainting strength renews,
And wings his speed to reach the prize.
The thought of home his spirit cheers,
No more he grieves for troubles past;
Nor any future trial fears,
So he may safe arrive at last.
'Tis there, he says, I am to dwell
With Jesus in the realms of day;
Then I shall bid my cares farewell,
And he shall wipe my tears away.
Jesus, on thee our hope depends,
To lead us on to thine abode :
Assur'd our home will make amends
For all our toil while on the road.
This may distress the worldling's mind,
But should not cost the saint a tear,
Who hopes a better rest to find.
"We've no abiding city here;"
Sad truth, were this to be our home,
But let the thought our spirits cheer,
"We seek a city yet to come."
"We've no abiding city here ;".
Then let us live as pilgrims do;
Let not the world our rest appear,
But let us haste from all below.
“We've no abiding city here;"
We seek a city out of sight;
Zion its name, the Lord is there,
It shines with everlasting light.
Oh! sweet abode of peace and love,
Where pilgrims, freed from toil, are blest!
Had I the pinions of the dove,
I'd flee to thee, and be at rest.
But hush, my soul, nor dare repine!
The time my God appoints is best;
While here, to do his will be mine,
And his to fix my time of rest.
WHILE I liv'd without the Lord
(If I might be said to live)
Nothing could relief afford,
Nothing satisfaction give.
Empty hopes and groundless fear,
Mov'd by turns my anxious mind;
Like a feather in the air,
Made the sport of ev'ry wind.
Now, I see, whate'er betide,
All is well, if Christ be mine;
He has promised to provide,
I have only to resign.
When a sense of sin and thrall
Forc'd me to the sinner's Friend,
He engag'd to manage all,
By the way and to the end.
"Cast," he said, " on me thy care, 'Tis enough that I am nigh; I will all thy burdens bear, I will all thy wants supply.
"Simply follow as I lead,
Do not reason, but believe;
Call on me in time of need,
Thou shalt surely help receive."
Lord, I would, I do submit,
Gladly yield my all to thee;
What thy wisdom sees most fit,
Must be, surely, best for me.
Only when the way is rough,
And the coward flesh would start,
Let thy promise and thy love
Cheer and animate my heart.
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