XI.

God moves in a mysterious way

His wonders to perform :
He plants his footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,

And works his sov'reign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage

take: The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercies, and shall break

In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

But trust him for his grace: Behind a frowning providence

He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding every hour :
The bud may have a bitter taste

But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan his work in vain : God is his own interpreter,

And He will make it plain.

XII.

God of my life, to Thee I call;
Aflicted, at thy feet I fall :
When the great water-floods prevail,
Leave not my trembling heart to fail.

Friend of the friendless and the faint! Where should I lodge my deep complaint? Where but with Thee, whose

open

door Invites the helpless and the poor?

Did ever mourner plead with Thee,
And Thou refuse that mourner's plea ?
Does not the Word still fix'd remain,
That none shall seek thy face in vain ?

That were a grief I could not bear,
Didst Thou not hear and answer prayer;
But a prayer-hearing, answering God,
Supports me under every load.

Fair is the lot that's cast for me
I have an Advocate with Thee :
They whom the world caresses most,
Have no such privilege to boast.

Poor though I am, despis’d, forgot,
Yet God, my God, forgets me not;
And he is safe, and must succeed,
For whom the Lord vouchsafes to plead.

XIII.

Throw away thy rod,
Throw away thy wrath,

O
my

God!
Take the gentle path.

For

my heart's desire
Unto thine is bent;

I aspire
To a full consent.

Not a word or look
I affect to own,

But by book,
And thy Book alone.

Who can ’scape his bow? That which wrought on Thee,

Brought Thee low, Needs must work on me,

Throw away thy rod,
Though man frailties hath :

Thou art God!
Throw away thy wrath.

XIV.

RETURN, my soul, unto thy Rest,
From vain pursuits and madd’ning cares ;
From lonely woes which wring thy breast,
The world's allurements, Satan's snares.

Return unto thy Rest, my soul,
From all the wand'rings of thy thought;
From sickness unto death, made whole;
Safe though a thousand perils brought.

Then to thy Rest, my soul, return,
From passions every hour at strife:
Sin's works, and ways, and wages spurn,
Lay hold upon eternal life.

God is thy Rest—with heart inclin'd
To keep his Word, that Word believe.
Christ is thy Rest—with lowly mind,
His light and easy yoke receive.