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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.

G. T. S.


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