And I said in underbreath—
All our life is mixed with death,—
And who knoweth which is best?
And I smiled to think God's greatness
Flowed around our incompleteness,—
Round our restlessness, His rest.
I cannot speak
In happy tones; the tear drops on my cheek
Show I am sad;
But I can speak
Of grace to suffer with submission meek,
Until made glad.
I cannot feel
That all is well, when dark'ning clouds conceal
The shining sun;
But then I know
God lives and loves; and say, since it is so,
"Thy will be done."
Wait, then, my soul! submissive wait,
Prostrate before His awful seat;
And 'mid the terrors of His rod,
Trust in a wise and gracious God!
REST.
When shall I be at rest? My eyes grow dim
With straining through the gloom; I scarce can see
The way-marks that my Saviour left for me.
Would it were morning and the night were gone.
