The Home

Thou who givest of Thy gladness

Till the cup runs o'er—

Cup whereof the pilgrim weary

Drinks to thirst no more—

Not a-nigh me, but within me

Is Thy joy divine;

Thou, O Lord, hast made Thy dwelling

In this heart of mine.

Need I that a law should bind me

Captive unto Thee?

Captive is my heart, rejoicing

Never to be free.

Ever with me, glorious, awful,

Tender, passing sweet,

One upon whose heart I rest me,

Worship at His Feet.

With me, wheresoe'er I wander,

That great Presence goes,

That unutterable gladness,

Undisturbed repose.

Everywhere the blessed stillness

Of His Holy Place—

Stillness of the love that worships

Dumb before His Face.

To Thy house, O God my Father,

Thy lost child is come:

Led by wandering lights no longer,

I have found my home.

Over moor and fen I tracked them

Through the midnight blast,

But to find the Light eternal

In my heart at last.