My heart has found a place of rest,
So sacred, and so sweet,
There she has built herself a nest,
And safe is her retreat.
A weary dove! the vulture’s prey!
She had not where to fly—
Her foe pursuing night and day,
She drop’t her wing, to die.
But as she sank, the Lord of love
Stretched forth His hand, and laid
Within His breast the fluttered dove,
And all her trembling stayed.
She folds her wing, and seeks no more
Another cleft to hide.
Here is her safety, here her store,
Her all by love supplied.
And when the angry tempests rise,
They only serve to teach
The sheltered dove, the more to prize
That rock they fail to reach.
Lord, ‘tis enough, Thyself shall be
My spirit’s peace and stay,
Till from the storm Thou called me
To God’s own rest for aye.