And yet our Father weaves His golden thread
Into the warp of duty's homespun web.
OUT OF THE DEPTHS.
Thou art, and, therefore, Thou art near, oh God!
Thick darkness covers me, I cannot see;
Is this the Shepherd's crook, or the correcting rod,
And by Thy hand, O Father, laid on me?
I cry to Thee, and shall I cry in vain?
My soul looks up as if through prison bars,
Up through the silent Heaven, ah, turn again
Thy face to me, hide not behind the stars.
Thy presence hath been with me in the past,
Where "heaps of witness" mark out all the way;
Thy years change not, Thy love is still as vast,
I look to Thee, I trust Thee though Thou slay.
My friends walk on the hills the sun hath kissed,
Flowers at their feet, their sky is blue and fair;
I'm prisoned in this vale of tearful mist,
Shut in with sorrow, darkened by despair.
I, too, once walked with footsteps glad and free,
Light round my head, and in my mouth a song;
Manna fell round my dwelling-place for me.
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