Jehovah’s ways, in wise de­sign
Are framed up­on His throne above;
And ev­ery dark and bend­ing line
Meets in the cen­ter of His love.

With fee­ble light and half ob­scure
Poor mor­tals His ar­range­ments view;
Unknowing, that the least are sure,
And the mys­te­ri­ous, just and true.

His flock, His own pe­cul­iar care,
Though simp­ly now they seem to roam,
Are led or driv­en on­ly where
To bring them, best and saf­est, home.

True; they nor know nor trace the way,
But trust­ing to His pierc­ing eye,
None of their feet to ru­in stray,
None of them fail, or droop, or die.

My fa­vored soul shall meek­ly learn
To lay her rea­son at His throne;
Too weak His sec­rets to dis­cern,
Shall trust Him for her guide alone.