w a v e s • o f • t r o u b l e • r o l l

Dear Refuge of my weary soul,

On Thee, when sorrows rise.

On Thee, when waves of trouble roll,

My fainting hope relies.

 

To Thee I tell each rising grief,

For Thou alone canst heal;

Thy Word can bring a sweet relief

For every pain I feel.

 

But oh, when gloomy doubts prevail,

I fear to call Thee mine;

The springs of comfort seem to fail,

And all my hopes decline.

 

Yet, gracious God, where shall I flee?

Thou art my only trust;

And still my soul would cleave to Thee,

Though prostrate in the dust.

 

Hast Thou not bid me seek Thy face?

And shall I seek in vain?

And can the ear of sovereign grace

Be deaf when I complain?

 

No, still the ear of sovereign grace

Attends the mourner’s prayer;

O access may I ever find,

To breathe my sorrows there.

 

Thy mercy-seat is open still,

Here let my soul retreat;

With humble hope attend Thy will,

And wait beneath Thy feet.

 

(Anne Steele, 1716-1778)

Done