I THANK Thee, Father, for these words
Of one o’er whom the billows rolled,
Who in his weakness learned true might,
And, strengthened thus, Thy ways has told.
My Father, in adversities
My soul, too, Thou hast fully known;
Comfort lies in these calming words,
With humble gratitude I own.
In bitter hours Thine eye marks well
Each quiver of the stricken soul;
Thou heedest then each hope and fear;
Each groan on Thee the grief to roll.
How frail, how weak my aching heart,
Well known to Thee, for great art Thou;
Sustain me in the furnace heat:
Submissive I to Thee would bow.
‘Tis sorrow now that wakes my song;
The heart by tears is oft-times tuned
A strain of love to Thee to raise
Whilst aching from a bleeding wound.
Oh! may it ne’er be written above,
Where all is calm and perfect rest,
Thy child forgot to hope in Thee,
Because borne down, because distressed.
Be Thou my Rock, my Fortress strong,
My soul in Thy pavilion hide;
I am with burdens overwhelmed,
Hence would the more in Thee confide.
For Thine own self, oh, make me firm,
By furnace fierce, by sorrows great,
Till peace and rest my soul possess,
And I for Thee can patient wait.