His seeking and His finding make
Our search an easy thing;
He sows good seed, and bids us take
The joys of harvesting.
Yet must His children do their part,
And what He gives accept;
No heart can understand His Heart
That has not bled and wept.
All seasons, bring they bale or bliss,
His priceless treasures hold;
The Winter’s silver all is His,
And His the Summer’s gold.