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Hope. |
4o3 |
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I have call'd Thee, Abba, Father !
I have stay'd my heart on Thee ! Storms may howl, and clouds may gather,
All must work for good to me.
Man may trouble and distress me,
'Twill but drive me to Thy breast ; Life with trials hard may press me,
Heaven will bring me sweeter rest ! O ! 'tis not in grief to harm me,
While Thy love is left to me ! O ! 'twere not in joy to charm me,
Were that joy unmix'd with Thee !
Take, my soul, thy full salvation ;
Rise o'er sin, and fear, and care ; Joy to find, in every station,
Something still to do or bear : Think what Spirit dwells within thee !
What a Father's smile is thine ! What a Saviour died to win thee !
Child of Heaven, shouldst thou repine ?
Haste then on from grace to glory,
Arm'd by faith, and wing'd by prayer ; Heaven's eternal day's before thee,
God's own hand shall guide thee there ! Soon shall close thy earthly mission,
Swift shall pass thy pilgrim days ; Hope soon change to glad fruition,
Faith to sight, and prayer to praise !
Henry Francis Lyte. [1825.] |
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