Thou! who art dear to me above
All other treasures of my love;
Who, cold and faithless though I be,
Remainest all in all to me
Beloved Savior! tell me where
Thy flock, Thy ransomed flock repose;
Within what sheltering valley fair,
The greenest, sweetest, pasture grows.
And show me where, in noontide’s beam,
They rest them by the stilly stream;
And where the dews, in vesper hours,
Lie coolest on the thirsty flowers!
I dare not turn aside to stray
In other paths, however sweet!
I dare not walk, but in the way
Marked by the traces of Thy feet!
In fruitful pastures smooth and bright,
In smiling valleys of delight,
I cannot find thy footprints traced,
But in the rough and dreary waste:
In lonely paths, uncheered and lorn,
Where bitter waters darkly flow;
And where the briar and the thorn
Encompassed round Thy steps of woe.
And shall we tremble, if Thou guide
Thy flock by stormy mountain side?
Is not the sweetest herbage found,
On stony, and on barren ground?
The balmiest herbs for healing grow
In places parched by Summer’s heat;
And aromatic odors flow
From balsams bruised by pilgrims’ feet.
‘Twill soon be past;—a few rough ways,
A few dark nights and languid days,
A few more mountain rills to quaff,
Led by Thy faithful rod and staff:
Then shall Thy blood-washed flock be fed
Within the fold of rest above;
And fathom, at its Fountain Head,
The river of redeeming love!
J. C.