Yea my spirit fain would sink

In Thy heart and hands, my God,

Waiting till Thou show the end

Of the ways she here hath trod;

Stripped of self, how calm her rest

On her loving Father's breast!

And my soul repineth not,

Well content whate'er befall;

Murmurs, wishes, of self-will,

They are slain and vanquished all,

Restless thoughts, that fret and crave,

Slumber in her Saviour's grave.

And my soul is free from care,

For her thoughts from all things cease

That can pierce like sharpest thorns

Wounding sore the inner peace.

He who made her careth well,

She but seeks in peace to dwell.

And my soul despaireth not,

Loving God amid her woe;

Grief that wrings and breaks the heart

Only they who hate Him know:

They who love Him still possess

Comfort in their worst distress.

And my soul complaineth not,

For she knows not pain or fear,

Clinging to her God in faith,

Trusting though He slay her here.

'Tis when flesh and blood repine,

Son of joy, Thou canst not shine.

Thus my soul before her God

Lieth still, nor speaketh more,

Conqueror thus o'er pain and wrong,

That once smote her to the core;

Like a silent ocean, bright

With her God's great praise and light.