Wearily my spirit sinketh

Into Jesu’s Heart and Hands,

Calmly trusting, though the journey

Lie through strange untrodden lands.

All my spirit is at rest

On the loving Father’s breast.

There my spirit cannot murmur,

Pleased with all that may betide—

What the will of Self would cherish

Is already crucified—

Buried is each murmuring word

In the grave of Christ my Lord.

There my spirit cannot question,

Little doth she think or say;

All the thorns of life around her

Cannot take her peace away—

He who made me guideth best,

And my heart is left at rest.

There my spirit knows no darkness,

Love remains when all is gone—

Sorrows crushing soul and body

Do the heathens know alone—

Resting in Christ’s blessed light,

Fears she not the earthly night.

There my spirit is not careful,

For she knoweth of no ill;

Hanging still upon her Father,

Though He slay her, trusting still;

How shall flesh and blood repine

Where the chastening is divine?

Thus on God my spirit waiteth,

Even so doth overcome;

Silently enduring all things,

Mockery and martyrdom;

Like a still sea doth she lie,

Full of praise to God most high.