O this is blessing, this is rest!

Into thine arms, O Lord! I flee;

I hide me in thy faithful breast,

And pour out all my soul to thee,

Now, hushing every adverse sound,

Songs of defense my soul surround,

As if all saints encamped about

One trusting heart, pursued by doubt.

2 And O, how solemn, yet how sweet,

Their one assured, persuasive strain!

“The Lord of hosts is thy retreat,

Still in his hands thy times remain.”

O tender word! O truth divine!

Lord, I am altogether thine;

I have bowed down, I need not flee;

Peace, peace is found in trusting thee.

3 And now I count supremely kind

The rule that once I thought severe;

And precious, to my altered mind,

At length thy kind reproofs appear.

I must be taught what I would know,

I must be led where I should go:

And all the rest ordained for me,

Is to be found in trusting thee.