I could only surely know

That all these things that tire me so

Were noticed by my Lord—

The pang that cuts me like a knife,

The noise, the weariness, the strife,

And all the nameless ills of life—

What peace it would afford!

I wonder if He really shares

In all these little human cares,

This mighty King of kings!—

If He who guides through boundless space

Each radiant planet in its place.

Can have the condescending grace

To mind these petty things.

It seems to me, if sure of this,

Blent with each ill would come such bliss

That I might covet pain,

And deem whatever brought to me

The blessed thought of Deity,

And sense of Christ’s sweet sympathy,

Not loss, but richest gain.

Dear Lord, my heart shall no more doubt

That Thou dost compass me about

With sympathy Divine.

The Love for me once crucified

Is not the love to leave my side,

But waiteth ever to divide

Each smallest care of mine.

*******

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