In Thy heart and hands, my God,

Calmly now my soul reposes,

Waiting patiently the end

That Thy aim in all discloses;

Stripp'd of self, how sweet her rest

On her loving Father's breast.

And my soul repineth not,

Well content whate'er befall her;

Murmurs, wishes, of self-will,

Doom'd to death, no more enthrall her;

Restless thoughts, that fret and crave,

Slumber in her Saviour's grave.

And my soul doth cease from cares,

From the thoughts that sore perplex us,

That destroy the inner peace,

For like sharpest thorns they vex us;

He who made her careth well,

She but seeks in peace to dwell.

And my soul despaireth not,

Loves Him most when sad and lonely;

Grief that wrings and breaks the heart

Comes to those who hate Him only;

They who love Him still possess

Comfort in their worst distress.

And my soul complaineth not,

For no pain or fears dismay her,

Still she clings to God in faith,

Trusts Him though He seem to slay her.

'T is when flesh and blood repine,

Sun of joy, Thou canst not thine.

Thus my soul is still and waits,

Every murmuring word she hushes,

Conquering thus the pain or wrong

That the restless spirit crushes;

Like a silent ocean, bright

With her Maker's praise and light.