A Heart Cry

A Heart Cry

It is thy hand, my God !

My sorrow comes from thee;

I bow beneath thy chastening rod,

'Tis love that bruises me.

I would not murmur, Lord,

Before thee I am dumb:

Lest I should breathe one murmuring word,

To thee for help I come.

My God! thy name is Love,

A Father's hand is thine;

With tearful eye, I look above,

And cry, " Thy will be mine!"

I know thy will is right,

Though it may seem severe;

Thy path is still unclouded light,

Though dark it may appear.

Jesus for me hath died;

Thy Son thou didst not spare;

His pierced hands, his bleeding side,

Thy love for me declare.

Here my poor heart can rest;

My God! it clings to thee;

Thy will is love, thine end is blest,

All work for good to me.