At Rest

Is. xl.11

O God, a world of empty show,

Dark wilds of restless, fruitless quest

Lie round me wheresoe'er I go:

Within, with Thee, is rest.

And sated with the weary sum

Of all men think, and hear, and see,

O more than mother's heart, I come,

A tired child to Thee.

Sweet childhood of eternal life!

Whilst troubled days and years go by,

In stillness hushed from stir and strife,

Within Thine Arms I lie.

Thine Arms, to whom I turn and cling

With thirsting soul that longs for Thee;

As rain that makes the pastures sing,

Art Thou, my God, to me.