18
PULPIT AND PRESS
Christ My Refuge
O'er waiting harpstrings of the mind |
There sweeps a strain, |
Low, sad, and sweet, whose measures bind |
The power of pain. |
And wake a white-winged angel throng |
Of thoughts, illumed |
By faith, and breathed in raptured song, |
With love perfumed. |
Then his unveiled, sweet mercies show |
Life's burdens light. |
I kiss the cross, and wake to know |
A world more bright. |
And o'er earth's troubled, angry sea |
I see Christ walk, |
And come to me, and tenderly, |
Divinely talk. |
Thus Truth engrounds me on the rock, |
Upon Life's shore; |
'Gainst which the winds and waves can shock, |
Oh, nevermore! |
From tired joy and grief afar, |
And nearer Thee, — |
Father, where Thine own children are, |
I love to be. |