It matters not,
What be thy lot,
So Love doth guide;
For storm or shine—
Pure peace is thine—
Whate'er betide.
And of these stones;
Or tyrant's thrones,
God able is,
To raise up seed—
In thought and deed—
To faithful His.
Aye, darkling sense
Arise, go hence,—
Our God is good:
False fears are foes,—
Truth tatters those,
When understood.
Love looseth thee,
And lifteth me,
Ayont hate's thrall:
There Life is light,
And wisdom might,
And God is all.
The centuries break!
The earth-bound wake!
God's glorified;
Who doth His will,
His likeness still,
Is satisfied.
