Heb. iv. 10.
Oft comes to me a
blessed hour,
A
wondrous hour and still--
With empty hands I
lay me down,
No
more to work or will.
An hour when weary
thought has ceased,
The
eyes are closed in rest;
And, hushed in
Heaven's untroubled peace,
I
lie upon Thy breast.
Erewile I reasoned
of Thy truth,
I
searched with toil and care;
From morn to night
I tilled my field,
And
yet my field was bare.
Now, fed with corn
from fields of Heaven
The
fruit of Hands Divine,
I pray no prayer,
for all is given,
The
Bread of God is mine.
There lie my
books--for all I sought
My
heart possesses now.
The words are sweet
that tell They love,
The
love itself art Thou.
One line I
read--and then no more--
I
close the book to see
No more the symbol
and the sign,
But
Christ revealed to me.
And thus my worship
is, delight--
My
work, to see His Face,
With folded hands
and silent lips
Within
His Holy place.
Thus oft to busy
men I seem
A
cumberer of the soil;
The dreamer of an
empty dream,
Whilst
others delve and toil.
O brothers! in
these silent hours
God's
miracles are wrought;
He giveth His
beloved in sleep
A
treasure all unsought.
I sit an infant at
His feet
Where
moments teach me more
Than all the toil,
and all the books
Of
all the ages hoar.
I sought the truth,
and found but doubt--
I
wandered far abroad;
I hail the truth
already found
Within
the heart of God.
G. T. S.