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.
