Hast thou long thy Lord's abiding
Vainly sought 'mid shadows dim?
Lo! His purpose wisely hiding,
Thee He seeks to worship him.
Shades of night, thy strain'd eye scorning,
Have they; long enwrapp'd the skies?
He, whose word commands the morning,
Soon shall bid the day-spring rise!
Are ten thousand fears desiring
To engulf their helpless prey?
One faint hope, his grace inspiring,
Is a mightier thing than they.
Has the foe his dark dominion,
As upon thy Saviour, tried?—
As to Him with hastening pinion,
Lo! the angels at thy side.
Is thy spirit all unfeeling,
Save to sin that grieves thee there?
Thee He'll make, his face revealing,
Joyful in His house of prayer!
Hast thou seen thy building falter
Can thy God thy griefs despise?
'Mid the ruins dark, an altar
Fashion'd by His hands, shall rise.
Thee, to some lone mountain sending,
Only with the wood supplied;
He, thy God, thy worship tending,
Will Himself a lamb provide.
Has He made it vain thy toiling
Fine-spun raiment to prepare?
'Twas to give—thy labors spoiling—
Better robes than monarchs wear.
From thy barn and storehouse treasure
Did He take thy hoarded pelf?
Yes: to feed thee was His pleasure,
Like the winged fowls—Himself.
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