Thou art my peace—I lift mine eyes to Thee;
I see Thee bleeding, dying on the tree;
I hear Thy mournful cry, ’Twas all for me—
Thou art my peace.

Thou art my peace—I lay my trembling hand
Upon Thy blessèd cross, and fearless stand
Amidst the darkness of this weary land—
Thou art my peace.

Thou art my peace—Thy face I cannot see;
My faith ebbs low—troubled my heart may be;
My life is sure—’tis hid in God with Thee—
Thou art my peace.

Thou art my peace—tho’ heart and hand may fail;
Tho’ storm and rain and angry strife prevail,
My hope is sure anchored within the veil—
Thou art my peace.

Thou art my peace—a while, a little while,
Of wandering here; tho’ many an earthly wile
May draw me back, and hold me from Thy smile—
Thou art my peace.

Thou art my peace—Thou wilt not change to me.
Oh, make me ever closer cling to Thee,
Until that hour when I Thy face shall see—
Thou art my peace.

Florence Armstrong
The King in His Beau­ty, 1875