My heart is rest­ing, O my God—
I will give thanks and sing;
My heart is at the sec­ret source
Of ev­ery pre­cious thing.
Now the frail ves­sel Thou hast made
No hand but Thine shall fill—
For the wa­ters of the Earth have failed,
And I am thirs­ty still.

I thirst for springs of heav’n­ly life,
And here all day they rise—
I seek the trea­sure of Thy love,
And close at hand it lies.
And a new song is in my mouth
To long loved mu­sic set—
Glory to Thee for all the grace
I have not tast­ed yet.

Glory to Thee for strength with­held,
For want and weak­ness known—
And the fear that sends me to Thy breast
For what is most my own.
I have a he­ri­tage of joy
That yet I must not see;
But the hand that bled to make it mine
Is keep­ing it for me.

There is a cer­tain­ty of love
That sets my heart at rest—
A calm as­sur­ance for to­day
That to be poor is best—
A pray­er re­pos­ing on His truth
Who hath made all things mine,
That draws my cap­tive will to Him,
And makes it one with Thine.

I will give thanks for suf­fer­ing now,
For want and toil and loss—
For the death that sin makes hard and slow,
Upon my Sav­ior’s cross—
Thanks for the lit­tle spring of love
That gives me strength to say,
If they will leave me part in Him,
Let all things pass away.

Sometimes I long for pro­mised bliss,
But it will not come too late—
And the songs of pa­tient spi­rits rise
From the place where­in I wait;
While in the faith that makes no haste
My soul has time to see
A kneel­ing host of Thy re­deemed,
In fel­low­ship with me.

There is a mul­ti­tude around
Responsive to my pray­er;
I hear the voice of my de­sire
Resounding ev­ery­where.
But the ear­nest of eter­nal joy,
In ev­ery pray­er I trace;
I see the glo­ry of the Lord:
On every chast­ened face.

How oft, in still com­mun­ion known,
Those spi­rits have been sent
To share the tra­vail of my soul,
Or show me what it meant!
And I long to do some work of love
No spoil­ing hand could touch,
For the poor and suf­fer­ing of Thy flock
Who com­fort me so much.

But the yearn­ing thought is min­gled now
With the thank­ful song I sing;
For Thy people know the sec­ret source
Of ev­ery pre­cious thing.
The heart that min­is­ters for Thee
In Thy own work will rest;
And the sub­ject spi­rit of a child
Can serve Thy child­ren best.

Mine be the rev­er­ent, list­en­ing love,
That waits all day on Thee,
With the ser­vice of a watch­ful heart
Which no one else can see—
The faith that, in a hid­den way
No oth­er eye may know,
Finds all its dai­ly work pre­pared,
And lov­es to have it so.

My heart is rest­ing, O my God,
My heart is in Thy care—
I hear the voice of joy and health
Resounding ev­ery­where.
Thou art my por­tion, saith my soul,
Ten thou­sand voic­es say,
And the mu­sic of their glad Amen,
Will ne­ver die away.