Is. xl. 11.
O God, a world of
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.