Luke xv. 23, 24.
Thou
who givest of Thy gladness
Till
the cup runs
o'er--
Cup
whereof the pilgrim weary
Drinks
to thirst no
more--
Not
a-nigh me, but within me
Is
Thy joy
divine;
Thou,
O Lord, hast made Thy dwelling
In
this heart of
mine.
Need
I that a law should bind me
Captive
unto
Thee?
Captive
is my heart, rejoicing
Never
to be
free.
Ever
with me, glorious, awful,
Tender,
passing
sweet,
One
upon whose heart I rest me,
Worship
at His
Feet.
With
me, wheresoe'er I wander,
That
great Presence
goes,
That
unutterable gladness,
Undisturbed
repose.
Everywhere
the blessed stillness
Of
His Holy
Place--
Stillness
of the love that worships
Dumb
before His
Face.
To
Thy house, O God my Father,
Thy
lost child is
come:
Led
by wandering lights no longer,
I
have found my
home.
Over
moor and fen I tracked them
Through
the midnight
blast,
But
to find the Light eternal
In
my heart at
last.
G. T. S.
