O LORD, it is a winter's sky,
And all below looks drear;
The north wind bloweth sharp and high,
No signs of Spring appear:
But I will tune my harp, and sing
Of Summer soon to come;
My soul in hope shall stretch her wing
To reach her sunny home.
The storm is rough, the rain falls fast,
But Thou my covert art;
While the fair sky is overcast,
I'll hide me in Thy heart:
My refuge, till I see Thy face,
Is 'neath Thy wings of love;
Thy wounded side the nestling-place
Of Thy poor timid dove.
Faith hath no cause to shed a tear,
Faith hath no cause to sigh:
Faith owns no warrant for a fear,
Or e'en a downcast eye:
No powers of earth or hell can mar
His work, or cross His will;
Whate'er the tempest, or the war,
Faith cries, "My soul, be still.”